


chlorine

by hidefromeveryone



Category: Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Depression, Dissociation, Eating Disorders, Food Issues, Gen, Human Experimentation, Hurt Peter Parker, Insomnia, M/M, Manic Episode, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Peter Parker Has Panic Attacks, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker is a Mess, Relapsing, Self-Harm, Serious Injuries, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Trans Peter Parker, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2019-10-22 19:14:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17668496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hidefromeveryone/pseuds/hidefromeveryone
Summary: Peter Parker was twenty years old. He was no longer a teenager, a dumb kid in high school, a new adult fumbling through the first stages of life after graduation.He really had no excuse to still be doing this. Self-destruction was something you were supposed to grow out of, not into.But here he was, a blade in his phone case and a calorie tracking app on his phone that never saw numbers higher than 1200. He supposed it could be worse, like before. Hell, it could get to be even worse than that.Even though Peter can't bring himself to care about his spiral back into old, dangerous habits, his friends and teammates do. They won't let him fall without a fight.





	1. towards the sun

**Author's Note:**

> haha what's that? projecting your issues onto fictional characters? never heard of her before. 
> 
> in all seriousness, this is mainly a way to process. my life right now. i've been in a weird space, and maybe writing can help. 
> 
> check the warnings. if you see something there that could be triggering, please be safe. i know all too well that avoiding those warnings can present itself as a form of self harm. take care of yourself. you deserve to feel okay.

Peter Parker knew that he shouldn't be indulging in these old, dangerous habits. That in the end, the careful forms of self-destruction would only hurt more than help him. After all, wasn't that exactly why he'd try to kick these coping mechanisms before? He was twenty years old, no longer a dumb teenager struggling to stay afloat. 

He was an adult actively drowning. And, damn, did the simple pain of starvation and scabbing cuts provide a sense of calm and clarity in every moment. It was controlled, and allowed him to master the part of his life that plagued him the most: his body. It was a cyclical form of punishment and reward, equals parts taxing and satisfying. If Peter was struggling to sleep, it was easier to pull out a blade destined to leave star-crossed paths with past scars across his shoulders than live with his uninterrupted thoughts. Getting up in the morning could be made easier with the promise of daily weigh-ins that, more often than not, signaled that he was maintaining or losing, either of which was satisfactory enough for him. Peter knew he had no excuse to be doing this, after successfully leaving both vices behind for over a year. But old habits die hard, and he could still remember every trick in the book that accompanied his secretive forms of daily relief. 

Self-destruction was something you were supposed to grow out of, not into. But here Peter was, a blade in his phone case and a calorie tracking app on his phone that never saw numbers higher than 1200. He knew it could be worse. He wasn't back to his previous standards, built on several daily sessions of self harm and 600 calorie maximums, but he was getting closer. He supposed it could get worse than that. Peter was unsure whether or not he wanted to see that sort of outcome, where stricter methods could take him in terms of success. 

It was currently 5:47 a.m., and he had a test in less than four hours. That he hadn't studied for. And required him to memorize thirty art pieces from the Enlightenment era. 

Sighing, he flicked back and forth between various tabs on his laptop. Most were assorted YouTube links which contained videos of cutesy food creations, music videos, and gaming streams, but some contained pages relevant to the coursework he was supposed to be studying. With a heavy heart, he settled on the document containing a half-finished essay. Glancing over it, he caught several grammatical mistakes borne of sleep-deprivation. 

Peter honestly couldn't comprehend why he'd decided to pursue a college career on top of being Spider-Man and juggling two jobs. He could never focus long enough on his homework to produce anything meaningful, leading to half-assessed assignments that kept his grades high enough but failed to live up to the standards Peter knew he could meet. Whenever he returned to his apartment, whether it be late at night, early in the morning, or in the dead of the afternoon, he crashed in a pile of incomprehensible apathy that refused to allow him to move. If he wasn't sleeping in those moments, he was wasting time attempting to do so with social media as a background filter. More often than not, he wanted to leave his fruitless effort to obtain a degree behind, even though he was halfway through it. 

But he had made a promise, long ago, to Aunt May and Uncle Ben that he would do this. Now that they were both gone, he wouldn't let that die for anything. 

Dragging a hand down his face, Peter felt his knuckles scrape the underside of his brow bones and winces as they threatened to do the same to his eyes. Sitting up and pushing his laptop off of his legs, Peter allowed himself to curl into a ball. Digging his fingernails into his knees in an effort to keep all of himself contained on his twin-sized mattress, Peter scrunched his eyes shut in an attempt to stop the panic before it could fully start. 

Fifteen minutes later, he had clumps of hair stuck in the cracks between his fingers and scratches on his throat. Chest heaving, Peter willed himself to be fucking normal for once. 

Why couldn't he just function like any normal human being? Most people would kill to be him. To live Spider-Man's life. To enjoy the opportunities he had. 

Maybe he would finish the job for them one of these days, purposefully or not. Peter didn't regard himself as actively suicidal anymore, but he wouldn't exactly mind if a truck hit him while he was crossing the street or if his heart gave out while he sat in class. He preferred to believe it was a sign that he was merely comfortable with his life now, and unafraid of death. It didn't mean that he wanted to leave. Because he didn't, not really. He just wanted to not be, well, _him_ anymore. 

Sliding off his bed, Peter padded his way over to his dresser and dug through the sock drawer, swearing when his finger pricked the tip of the X-Acto knife he'd tossed in there a few days prior. A few cuts, and he could finish the essay. Cram for the test. Show up for the exam. Attend work afterwards. Meet up with the Avengers come nighttime for their weekly meeting. 

It wasn't a big deal. He wouldn't even cut deep enough to prevent the skin from sealing its new edges back together on its own. The blade was dull, anyway.

Peter just needed to focus, and remember that others were counting on him. The neighborhood had to have its friendly Spider-Man, even if he came packaged with a factory default.


	2. panic room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check the tags c: there's a few new ones.

When Peter realized where his feet had carried him, he also realized that the sun was almost fully set. It was barely peeking above the lowest buildings in the New York skyline, its hazy warm tones a sore sight for his tired eyes. It ached to take in their colors, and it seemed as if the part of his brain that processed any of his sensory inputs was completely shut down. 

Peter distinctly knew that he had done everything he was supposed to that day. Shown up at all the right places, at all the right times, with all the right words and actions to fit in with the rest of the crowd. 

He just couldn't truly remember any of it. 

It was normal, by this point, to forget every detail of his life that wasn't attached to pain or the delicate balancing act of being a superhero. Floating through his days allowed Peter to distance himself from everything in the world. It wasn't intentional, not anymore. Dissociating was his natural state of being anymore, even when Peter wanted to be present in the situation. His brain had forgotten how to exist without reminding him to panic about his distant relationships, precarious grades, or fantastical failures. 

Because if he focused to long, some part of the world would sink its claws into him with a demanding presence that wouldn't be ignored. And if that happened, Peter couldn't pretend that he didn't exist anymore. 

Which is why it was a relief that it was a Thursday night, and his suit was attached to his body like a second skin. Spider-Man didn't require Peter Parker's existence to perform his duties. He just needed to do his job, and do it right the first time. 

It was something Peter was still failing at more often than he'd like to admit. The others never said anything, but the list of lost lives burned in his mind whenever his grip on his webs started to subtly slip. 

Gwen, MJ, May, Ben. They were all dead. Indirectly or not, their bloods was on his hands, which is why Peter bent his fingers backwards one by one until they threatened to pop or bend. 

Moving slow, Peter placed his right hand on the side of the Avengers Tower, followed by his left. His feet quickly followed, and his climb up the side of the building was graceful and slightly unnerving, the natural flow of his body next to the metal like a sand on hot desert sand. Climbing up forty stories wasn't necessary, and Peter knew Tony hated that he exerted himself in this way, but it was a way to clear his brain of cotton balls and dead moths before he had to speak with his teammates for a while. 

Plus, the view from high up was enchanting with its possibilities. Humans loved the idea of flying, but the idea of falling held so much more potential. You could either catch yourself in the act and portray a greater sense of purpose to the rest of the world, or let the planet catch your fall with sticks and stones designed to break your bones into irreparable pieces. Either way, glory or ruin, it was enticing to try. Peter thumbed one of his web shooters and contemplated the possibility. 

No, he'd have time for that later out on patrol. Besides, he'd arrived. 

Tony despite his nagging that climbing up the side of a skyscraper was a waste of time, always left a window open for Peter. It was behind the kitchen, near the backside of the living room on the common floor. It was perfect with its privacy, because it allowed Peter to crawl inside the tower without immediately notifying everyone of his presence. 

The extra time was a blessing and a curse. A time to steel himself, but also a time to leave before anyone saw him. Even though they rarely said anything, the way Natasha always took in the bags under his eyes and Peter's hunched posture made him feel that she knew way too much about him. 

Which he had to avoid, in order to continue being Spider-Man. They threatened to force him to move in before, given the fact that every Avenger had a full suite in the tower personalized for them. His was a few floors up, and gathering dust, because living around the others would reveal too many of his secrets and garner more questions than he could bear. 

Dropping to the floor, Peter's feet lightly bounced on the tiled marble as he rounded the corner after taking off his mask. It was a smaller turn-out tonight, with only Bruce, Clint, Steve, Bucky, and Thor huddled around the kitchen island. Each had a mug in their hands, most filled with coffee or tea. Peter had a sneaking suspicion Thor's was full of the special, alcoholic butterbeer Tony had whipped up after the Harry Potter movie marathon a few weeks back. The Norse god was a fiend for the stuff, and was always sneaking some when he could. 

"Hey, guys. Anyone else coming tonight?" Peter knew the answer was likely a no, but he figured it'd be rude to assume anything with the constantly changing schedules each of them kept. 

"No, everyone else is either out on a mission, just back from one," said Steve as he gestured towards the counter behind him. "Help yourself to something, you look a bit tired." 

Peter bit back a wince. Was it really that obvious that the amount of sleep he was retaining was down to a semi-nightly basis? Forcing a smile, he ducked around them. "Thanks." 

The selection available in front of Peter was massive, given the fact that Tony was the one to stock it. He would never be one to admit it, but Peter knew he liked to ensure everyone felt at home in the tower. Everyone's favorite was tucked in a corner or cupboard somewhere, and whenever Natasha mentioned a new type of tea or latte that wasn't there, it seemed to appear within hours. 

For now, Peter settled on green tea. It was a safe classic, and he could chance a drizzle of honey and lemon while still staying under fifty for the whole cup. A few minutes passed in the relative silence of a home, as Bruce mumbled about a new discovery to Thor, who kept rapt attention, and Bucky and Clint took turns making jokes at the expense of an ever-more-embarrassed Steve. Once his drink was settled, Peter sat on a stool between Bucky and Bruce. 

It wasn't until he was sitting that the height difference truly hit him, and his chest weighed heavily on him as the dysphoria threatened to settle in. Peter didn't want to do this tonight, but he didn't know how to avoid the subtle feeling that he wasn't a real man surrounded by, well, some of the best men on the planet. His fingers tightened around the mug detailed with chibi Iron Man suits, and he relished in the small burns he felt appearing on his fingertips. The suit's gloved hands weren't enough to stop the boiling water from seeping into his skin and leaving their mark on his body. The pain was grounding, and kept Peter captive in the moment as the team began to phase out of their casual small talk.

"Before we get started, is there anything anyone wants to get off their chest from the past week?" Steve's tone was balanced between commanding and understanding, the natural lilt of a leader who cared more about the people under his care than the general outcome of their adventures in the end. 

Bruce cleared his throat slightly and adjusted his over-sized purple sweater, its excess fabric pooling in his lap and around his hands. "Shuri's been helping me a lot lately with my ongoing research into gamma radiation. We're still a long way off from any real progress, but her expertise is helping things move faster than I could have ever imagined." He hesitated for a moment, fiddled with the fraying edge of one of his sweater cuffs. "She's great, but I can't help but feel as if I'm taking her away from her other projects that matter more." 

"Bullshit." Clint was seated at the end of the island opposite Steve so he could see everyone without straining himself. He didn't like to keep his hearing aids in if he could help it, especially when it was just a few of them. It was easier to read their lips than to tune out the mind-numbing frequencies of the noise they picked up. "You deserve the help. More than anyone, buddy." Clint took on a joking tone as he leaned back in his stool, balancing its back legs precariously in the air. "You're lucky she doesn't try to prank you. I've heard the horror stories from T'Challa. Besides, one of these days she'll probably end up roping our youngest science nerd into some devious project." 

Peter sputtered slightly, hot chocolate clogging his airways as a cross between an indignant huff and a shock of embarrassment ran through him. 

"Are you alright, young Peter?" Thor brows were creased as he watched the younger boy's shoulder roll forward as he curled in on himself. 

"Yeah, I'm good. Thanks, Thor." Peter fiddled with the string of the tea bag, it's cream threads stained golden from the honey. 

"Well, sorry to interrupt the party, but there's something Steve and I need to tell all of you about." Bucky's voice was flat with tension, and the light air dissipated into something heavier in an instant. Whenever the former Winter Soldier was this serious, there was something seriously wrong. "At first we didn't think anything of it, but it's become clear that we can't ignore this anymore." 

Steve met his boyfriend's eyes, calculating what he should say first. "A few weeks ago, a body was found by Matt Murdock one night on patrol. The reason it stuck out to him was, well - the smell of the blood was so intense that it overwhelmed most of his senses." Steve played with the spoon in his mug, stirring the coffee slightly before continuing. "It was odd, but not terribly so." 

"Until they kept turning up," Bucky interjected. 

"We're not sure who is doing this, or why, but it's undeniable that something sinister is going on. Every one of these people was tortured in absolutely horrific ways, to the point where the only part of them partially identifiable is their face. It's possible the damage is done to erase something else going on, but we can't be sure." Steve's eyes were downcast, his fingers trailing around the rim of his mug now. 

"What should we do about this?" Thor's mouth was set in a firm line, his expression unreadable but his grip on the island threatening to bend it. 

"Keep a look out, question any of the criminals we catch to see if they know anything. If we've noticed this pattern, so have they. Someone knows something, and it'll only be a matter of time before the threads of whatever operation or whoever is doing this start to unravel." Steve paused. "Most of the people found have been ordinary citizens, but this morning a young superhero was found. No one that we knew, it appeared the teen had just started stretching her powers out." 

Peter felt as though he was going to throw up, his mind reeling with guilt. His patrols had been slacking in intensity and length recently. Had he been out in the streets more often, more present in the moment, he would have noticed the new young hero canvasing the city in his absence. 

She was dead now, and he should have been out there to save her from that. Had the Avengers and the other older heroes of the city not taken Peter under his wing as a young teen, he would have met the same fate. Even with their guidance and protection, death had still come for him hundreds of times. Super-villains and garden-variety criminals alike, they all knew how to inflict pain without remorse. 

Before Peter's thoughts could spiral further, he felt Bucky nudge his shoulder lightly. Peter started, his slight flinch not going unnoticed by the men around him. "Hmm? Sorry, did I miss something?" He couldn't read their eyes, catch what they were thinking. "I, uh - Sorry, I was spacing out there for a second. I've been pretty tired lately with my classes, Spider-Man, the pizza place, the newspaper..." His words trailed off, Peter's ramblings hanging in the air for a few moments before Steve let a small sigh escape into the air. "Sorry, I'm back now." 

Steve met Peter's eyes, and held his gaze as he began speaking. "Peter, just - Be careful, okay? Out of all of us, you're the one who most frequently patrols the city. We don't know if the move to killing heroes was intentional or not. Regardless, until we know who's behind this, we don't know what they're hoping to accomplish. Be extra alert, extra cautious. I don't want to see you hurt." 

"None of us do, man," said Clint. "We've all been there before, kidnappings, torture, whatever. Let's try to avoid it this time, if possible." 

Nervously shifting in his seat, Peter decided to point out the elephant in the room. "Why just me? Why not say this to everyone here? Why I am more vulnerable than the rest of you? Everyone should be staying safe, looking out for each other! Always! Because that's what teammates do for each other!" His tone had grown from nervous to bitter over the course of his words. He wasn't a child anymore. They shouldn't treat him like one. 

"Well, Peter, with all due respect, you are the youngest of us here in the city. By default, you have the least experience of us all." Bucky's words stung Peter more than any cuts from his blades ever could. "We're just trying to look out for you. You're smaller, don't use any particular weapon, and, lately, you've been pretty tired." 

Abruptly standing up from his seat, Peter hands slammed down on the island. "Lack of experience? I've been doing this for a quarter of my life, Bucky! My web shooters help me more than enough, and my powers make up for the rest! Also, my fucking size is a benefit, not a disadvantage! It keeps me fast, and helps me hide." Peter's hands curled into small fists. "I'm only tired because of how much I'm trying to do." 

"I'm sorry, Peter. None of that was meant to be an insult, in any way." Bucky's words were muffled to Peter's ears as he turned on his heel, pacing around the small kitchen. "Please don't be upset." 

Peter paused mid-stride, hands coming up to run down his face. Why did he make this into a scene? Why didn't he just accept their concern? "It's okay. I'm sorry for over-reacting." He turned to leave, slipping his mask over his face once more. 

"Leaving so soon, Peter?" It was Bruce, who had been silent since the news dropped mere minutes earlier. 

"I'm leaving to patrol." Peter paused in his stride, almost to the window. "I'll see you guys next week. Stay safe in the meantime. Good luck with your research Bruce, and say hi to Shuri for me." 

With that, Peter was up the glass and out the window. He vaguely heard Steve calling his name, but he was plunging down from the heights, having jumped off the side of the building. The city lights blurred past Peter's lenses as he felt his stomach rise into his lungs, his chest constricting from the pressure the fall brought onto him. A few stories from the sidewalk, he flicked his wrist and watched the web fluid eject itself from the small shooter. It caught on a nearby building, and he began to swing between the skyscrapers, waiting for someone to need his help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just had. a few days from hell. a bad mde hit me from nowhere, no real trigger even. i think its getting a little better but oooo yike. 
> 
> i have a few chapters down the little pretty much done and figured out. wade will be making an appearance c: everything is gen here in regards to peter, so i'm not shipping anyone with him. i currently only plan to include stucky as a romantic pairing. 
> 
> i would like some input tho. im playing around with who i want involved in the next chapter. i currently can't decide between steve/bucky, bruce, and clint. hint: the scene involves them stopping by peter's apartment.
> 
> i'm sorry this update is so long, i feel terrible. would people be interest in a playlist for this fic if i made one? 
> 
> also, thank you so much for the kind comments, they mean the world to me!! <33


	3. edit the sad parts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enjoy c:

Peter returned to his apartment early in the morning, the low hour resting between the twilight of dawn and the break of day. If it weren't for the fresh bruises peppering his body, then there would have been no sign of the hours he'd lost to his patrol. Regardless of their origin, they merely served as a reminder of his slipping performance and reduced response time. It should have been concerning to Peter, the increased likelihood of the common criminal severely injuring him in the middle of their mild scuffles. They weren't anything truly dangerous, like Mysterio or the Vulture. If they caught him in his current state, they wouldn't hesitate to snap up the opportunity to end his life in their revenge-riddled hands. 

Why was the idea so comforting to him? 

Ignoring the implications of his own thoughts, Peter began to take off his suit. The material was slick with sweat, a few spots marked with minimal traces of blood. He couldn't tell whether they were from his own self-inflicted injuries or not, but Peter supposed it truly didn't matter in the end. The fabric pooled beneath him, near the window he'd come in through mere moments ago. Not stopping to pick it up, Peter quickly walked through the small common area connected to his kitchen and into his bedroom. His clean clothes were still living in the off-white laundry basket nestled between his desk and bookshelf, and he rifled through the wrinkled pile until he emerged with a raggedy t-shirt from high school, an old pair of sweatpants, and a clean pair of boxers. Turning on his heel, Peter exited his room once more and headed directly into the bathroom. Flicking on the light, it hummed to life. 

God, Peter looked like shit. 

Indigo bags lived under his eyes, sinking into the hollows of his skull and sticking to his bones. His skin looked sickly, a yellow-blue hue casting a faint shadow over all of his features. Rather than fall into its natural waves, Peter's hair stuck together in greasy clumps, the brown color dulled into a shade akin to rust. As he drug his eyes downwards, they caught sight of the shape of his skeleton peeking out of several areas around his body. His elbows, knees, ankles, wrists. They all threatened to tear through his skin at any moment. 

Despite all of it, the thing that stood out to Peter the most was his binder. It was old and frayed, its edges either curling upwards into themselves or inwards in an attempt to hide. He needed to purchase a new one. For now, he simply took it off. 

If Peter was smart, he would know to avoid the mirror now. But he wasn't, so he stared, and waited for his throat to stop constricting and for his lungs to stop collapsing. He was wrong, all of him. No amount of surgery or hormones could ever fix this, even if he could afford them. 

Resigned to his fate, Peter turned away. Crouching, he pulled his old scale out from under the sink, it's creamy exterior taunting him. It wasn't smart to weight himself right now, considering that he'd just spent several hours straining his body to its limit. After ensuring it was steady on the tile, Peter stepped onto the small square anyway. 

Fuck. The number showed a .4 lb increase, likely due to water retention. Regardless of logic, it was higher than it should have been. Peter frowned, and worried his bottom lip between his teeth until he felt its skin tear. After kicking the scale back under the sink, he let his shoulders shag. 

All there was left to do in the small room was shower, so Peter twisted the faucet until it was as high as it would go. He waited for the water's steam to fog up the mirror before stepping under the spray. It was burning hot, an instant pain blooming in his skin as it threatened to boil him alive. Peter squeezed his eyes shut and let the angry droplets beat his body into numbness. Once he could no longer feel the heat, Peter reached for the shampoo, swearing upon the realization that it was empty. He had meant to pick up a new bottle from the store several days ago. Deciding to just use conditioner, he ran the thick substance through the strands of his hair until it coated them fully. His fingers fumbled for the bar of soap resting behind him in the stall's wall. 

It fell to the floor. Reaching for it, Peter found his body following his hand towards the tile until all of his limbs were tangled in a ball near the drain. He willed himself to get back up, wash the conditioner out of his hair, and turn the water off. But Peter couldn't move, so he simply waited for the water to run cold. Once it ran cold, he waited for it to run out. The water tank connected to his apartment never stayed full for long. 

Some amount of time later, he realized clumps of conditioner were stinging his eyes and that his fingers had turned into prunes. With nothing but the drip of the faucet accompanying his movements, Peter stood, knees shaking. Leaving the stall, Peter grabbed a nearby towel and dried himself off as best he could. Slipping into his clothes, Peter left the bathroom without turning the light off. He fell into his mattress moments later. Sleep came soon, but not soon enough. 

Several hours later, his phone let out a thin shrill as his alarm signaled the start of his classes in thirty minutes. Fingers heavy from sleep, Peter turned off the annoying tone and rolled over. He had yet to miss any classes this semester, and neither of his jobs had scheduled him for the day. He could afford to not exist today. A couple of half-assessed e-mails explaining an imaginary cold would excuse his absence in the eyes of his professors.

Rolling back over and pulling his knees towards his chest, Peter tucked his head into his pillow and went to back to sleep. 

The thing about constant sleep deprivation and insomnia that Peter always forgot is that when he stopped running, so did his body. For a good, long while. He spent the rest of the day fast asleep. After stirring again near midnight, Peter drug his tired bones out of bed in order to go to the bathroom and drink a glass of water. Before long, he was back under his blankets, eyes falling shut once more. 

He stayed that way until Saturday morning fully arrived with a knock on his front door and a stream of sunlight burning his eyelids. Peter ignored the initial knock, figuring it was a false alarm. Nobody ever visited him, although he knew that all of the Avengers knew where he lived. A matter of safety, Tony had said. 

Another knock, slightly more anxious, rang through his apartment. Stifling his groan, Peter shook the extended sleep from his limbs. He took the time to put his binder on before shuffling towards the front door, several more knocks occurring in the meantime. He could hear muffled arguing, light in tone. One of the voices was more anxious, wanting to leave. The other was more insistent, refusing to let them leave. Not checking to see who was waiting outside, Peter unchained his door and flipped the lock before wrenching it open. 

Bucky and Steve were standing on his doorstep, the two super soldiers looking slightly sheepish. Steve had a stack of pizza boxes balanced in one arm, and a twelve-pack of soda hooked in his free hand. Bucky's hands were also occupied, a bag of Chinese food in one and a stacks of movies in the other. A few moments passed as Peter resisted the urge to let his shock at the sight show on his face. 

If wasn't that he wasn't glad to see his teammates, it was that he had never _expected to_. Every member of the Avengers considered themselves friends, but he hadn't known the level of friendship was considered to be deeper than surface-level when it came to him. He was younger than the rest, and lacked most of the shared experiences that tied the rest of them together. 

Peter wasn't sure how to describe the feeling bubbling up inside him. It was flattering to know other people were thinking of him, but he didn't understand why. He wasn't exactly the easiest company to keep around. 

"Hey, Peter! Sorry to bother you this morning, we weren't sure if you'd be in or not." Steve's optimism was contagious, and Peter felt a small smile turn the corners of his lips upwards. 

Bucky let out a surprised squeak as Steve elbowed him in the side, tone playful as he continued on. "Old grumpy-pants here figured making things up to you after the other night might be a good idea, and we thought an afternoon movie marathon might do the trick." 

"In all seriousness, Peter, I want to apologize for the other night. I'm still not exactly sure why what I said struck a cord with you, but I know that it did." Bucky's fingers tightened around the plastic handles of the bag holding the Chinese food. "I really don't want it to come between us." 

Peter blinked, sleep-addled brain still processing the facts of the situation in front of him. "Oh, um! Don't worry about it, really. I'm sorry for overreacting. It was really my fault how things ended up during the meeting. Seriously, it's totally my bad. You're good, no worries!" His ramblings went on slightly too long as Bucky's eyebrows quirked upwards. The super soldier's gaze met Steve's. 

"Anyway, if you want us to leave, we will. I told Steve the food might be a bit overkill, considering we didn't even know if you'd be in or if you had other plans," said Bucky. 

A moment passed in which Peter considered calories and the dirty state of his apartment. His abysmal lack of hospitality and small television. The fact that he was standing in the doorway of his apartment in a t-shirt that had the image of a polar bear between positive and negative symbols. "What movies?" 

"Star Wars." Bucky shook the DVD cases in front of Peter's face. "Steve still hasn't seen them." 

"What! You haven't seen Star Wars? But it's been on your list for years!" Peter's tone was indignant as he stepped back from the doorway, giving the men an unspoken invitation to enter. "This is a crime against humanity. I'm shocked that you would do this to me, Steve! It's unacceptable." 

Although unnecessary, given the small size of his apartment, Peter pointed out where the bathroom was located as they passed by the room on the way to the living space. As Steve and Bucky placed the assorted containers of food onto the kitchen table, Peter dug through his cabinets for the needed dinnerware and cutlery. Emerging victorious with a mismatched assortment of nerdy plates, thrift store silverware, and restaurant-style cups, Peter shot the men a broad smile. They laughed as they watched him precariously walk the odd assortment towards the table, cracking jokes along the way. They likely had something to say about his living situation, but they were keeping their thoughts quiet. Peter was beyond grateful for this. It made it easier to keep up his facade, and be the person they were expecting to see today. 

Of course, that could only last for so long. 

Steve piled his plate high with pepperoni pizza and chow mein as Bucky went about opening all of the containers to reveal what was inside. Bucky's plate became similar to Steve's in size, though his actual food choices varied. Peter placed a single slice of cheese pizza, a cup's worth of fried rice, and several pieces of orange chicken onto his plate. In the moment, he hadn't thought that another person might find the amount of his food on his plate questionable. It was a small feast, after all. Only after settling into his bean bag chair beside the couch with his plate and one of the soda cans did Peter notice the stares. 

"Is something wrong? Did one of you want to sit here? I can move, no problem!" Peter fiddled with his fork, tossing several grains of rice around absentmindedly. 

The silence filling the room was palpable, twisting Peter's heart in such a fashion that it threatened to fall and break between his ribs. He had already messed this up. They were only trying to do something nice for him. 

"Peter, you would let us - someone - know if something was wrong, right?" Steve's question was close to Peter's ears, and with a start he noticed that he and Bucky had sat down on the couch. Their expressions mirrored each other, the faces of the older men etched with concern. 

Peter needed to fix this, fast. 

"Yeah, of course! I'm just a little tired, Steve! I'm pretty busy, and it's nice to have a break. You never know you need one until it happens, right?" Peter's tone was artificially optimistic, his words reading genuine instead of frantic in his attempt to dissuade their suspicions. "Nothing's wrong. If something were, I would let you know! After all, New York needs Spider-Man. Can't have me falling apart on it." It was almost possible to hear little smiley faces constructed from parentheses and colons punctuating each of Peter's sentences. 

"That's all well and good, Peter, but I've lived long enough to know what someone struggling looks like. Steve and I have been through a lot over the decades." Bucky's words stalled Peter's blood. "What's going on, kid?" 

He needed to think of something, fast. They couldn't know anything about what was actually going on with him. No one could. 

Peter's mind shoved all of his problems into a bottle full of common, excusable stressors that the average individual didn't send you to the hospital over. Shaking them all together and smashing the resulting mixture in the deepest corner of his mind, Peter picked a few of the pieces to focus on. They were coated with the truth now, and simple hints of it would be enough to convince them. Strands of the truth make any lie believable. 

Resting his head in his hands, Peter let a small sigh escape. "To be honest with you guys, money's been tight." Both Steve and Bucky knew the struggles surviving on a low income brought, and it was clear from his living situation that Peter wasn't lying about his lack of funds. "Food's been tight, too." That part was by choice, but they didn't need to know that. "I've been so tired all the time. My blowup the other night wasn't really about what you said, Bucky." Peter schooled his features into looking forlorn. "I'm sorry. Really, I'm just so sorry I didn't tell you guys sooner. It's embarrassing." Their expressions were still concerned, but leaning more towards relief now. The situation Peter presented was reasonable and explainable. Something tangible and easy to manage. "I don't want to take advantage of anyone." Relief edged into sympathy. Jackpot.

"Peter, there's nothing to be ashamed of. You should have come to us sooner." Steve's words were laced with understanding. "We've been worried that something else was going on." 

Fuck. The bullet wasn't fully dodged yet. "I just didn't want to be a bother. Taking money from someone wouldn't be fair." 

"Goddammit, Peter, you and Steve are too much alike. This knucklehead was always saying the same kind of things back in the day. Is that why you didn't take more food?" Bucky said. 

They'd noticed that, too. "Uh, yeah." Peter sheepishly scratched the back of his head. 

"If you're worried about the cost of the food, don't be. It's a gift, from us to you," said Steve. He patted Peter's knee. "Eat as much as you want." 

"Thanks, um. Would it be okay if we started watching the movies now? It's been a while since I've seen these, and I'm super excited!" Peter's smile and excited tone was the last puzzle piece needed in order to kill their fear. Bucky's shoulders sagged in relief and Steve's brow relaxed, satisfied that their worries had been addressed. 

"Sure, kid." Bucky stood up from the couch, and grabbed the movie off the table. As Bucky went to set up the movie, Peter took his first bite of the pizza. A switch flipped in his mind as its flavor exploded in his mouth. His body was hungry, and his mind wanted to fill it. Leaping out of his chair, he dashed to the table. 

"This is the best fucking pizza in New York! Where did you guys find this?" Peter's arms, now possessively clutching two of the pizza boxes, caused Steve to break down laughing. "I'm going to die if I don't eat all of this _right now_." At that, Bucky chuckled lightly. He started the movie as soon as Peter was perched in his seat once more. 

They settled into a rhythm quickly, the quiet sounds of eating accompanying the films and their laughter. Easy jokes and a comfortable sense of home invaded Peter's apartment, and Steve's wonder as he watched Star Wars for the first time was entertaining in and of itself. The afternoon and early evening stretched into each other, molding into an indiscernible ball of time. It was nice, to feel safe and secure in his own home. Peter knew he'd care about the binge later, and would have to answer periodic questions about his financial situation from the two older men, but he didn't care about that for now. For now, he felt suspiciously okay. The fantasy of space and the smiles on his friend's faces were enough to keep him grounded. It was nice to escape his own head for a while. 

Sometime during _Return of the Jedi_ , Peter drifted off to sleep, his body not used to processing the amount of food he'd just ingested. 

When Peter awoke, it was the next morning. A blanket was draped around his body that hadn't been present previously, and the extra warmth kept his bones from cracking as he stretched his legs and stood. Steve and Bucky were gone, but they had left a note thanking Peter for all of the fun they had the day before. A tip about a rouge Hydra branch had reached them the night before, so they'd left hoping to track them down as quickly as possible. A few twenty dollar bills were tacked onto the backside of the note, alongside a request that Peter get himself something to eat with it. Knowing they wouldn't take the money back from him even if he tried to return it, Peter tucked the bills into one of his pockets and made a mental note to put it towards a new hard drive. His current one was close to breathing its last digital breaths. 

Unsure of what to do with himself in the absence of the other men, Peter found himself missing their company. It would be dangerous to get used to having other people around if it meant that he'd feel like this when Peter inevitably found himself alone. Especially since the previous day's antics with Steve and Bucky had merely occurred because they were being nice to him after Thursday night. Knowing that what had passed would likely never happen again, Peter began humming lightly to himself as he became lost in his own thoughts. 

The apartment felt too empty now, and he wanted to get out of its oppressive silence. The only problem was that he had nowhere to go. Peter feared where his feet might carry him if he started wandering around the city for too long without a purpose. Idle minds lead to dangerous pastimes, in his experience. 

A distant chirp reached Peter's ears. Wandering into his bedroom, Peter walked over to his dresser. He'd left his phone charging there several nights before, and the offending noise had come from the cracked electronic. A message from Clint was sitting in his notifications, and Peter's eyes widened in surprise. Clint only sent direct messages to specific members of the team when he had news regarding one of their current concerns about the city's criminal underground. Peter sat down on his bed, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth until the taste of iron flooded his mouth. Several seconds passed as Peter's anxiety began to claw at his chest, the contents of Clint's message taunting him. Another text from the archer appeared on Peter's phone, the notification light flashing green in the early morning light. A portion of its content grazed the top of Peter's screen as his notification bar previewed the message. 

_May have a lead on the bodies piling up around the city. Need you to -_

It was time to pull the fraying edges of himself back together again. The city needed Spider-Man, not another broken man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/ironicendings/playlist/19fr8q1DytTAtUBmsEBG8b?si=Jnyf9UE_RzGj99pIYyrq8w) (a work-in-progress)
> 
> our favorite spies are up next. (yes, that means the next chapter has clint **and** natasha making an appearance!!) as it currently stands, it's looking like this fic will be at least twelve chapters long. ten of those are fully planned out already, and i'm working on them here and there c: if there's anything you'd be interested in seeing addressed, let me know. 
> 
> i don't know if it's just me or not, but i struggled to write this chapter (even though i knew what i wanted to have happen). if anything seemed off with my writing, i'm sorry. i'm hoping the feeling doesn't return as i work on the next chapter. 
> 
> thank you so much for all of the comments again!! they're all i need to make it through my day c:


	4. savior complex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new tags!! stay safe c:

Peach-toned morning light filtered through the clouds resting in New York City's skyline, reflecting off of the lenses in Peter's costume as he swung throughout the city. Clint had asked Peter to meet him on the roof of a small building near the waterfront half an hour earlier. Although he wasn't exactly sure why Clint was asking for his help, Peter wasn't going to complain. It was nice to have somewhere to go, a purpose to fulfill once he arrived. Anything was better than aimlessly wandering the city, waiting for stray criminal activity to catch his eye and guide his actions for a few minutes most days.

The messages Clint had sent less than an hour earlier informed Peter of a potential lead in their investigation regarding the murders multiplying around the city. Natasha had been deep undercover with a local gang for the past few weeks, and she had called Clint last night to let him know that the dime a dozen wannabe crime lords she'd been shadowing might be hiding something a lot more sinister than their surface operations of drug trafficking and bank heists. One of their warehouses that hugged the shoreline frequently saw traffic, but the goods had transformed from material to human yesterday when she caught sight of several people, bound and gagged, being drug into the discreet building. Whispers around the shipyard spoke of medical trials, experimentation, and mutant mutations. 

The signs of torture found on the mutilated bodies throughout the city were likely the result of any failed trial in the eyes of whoever was responsible for the underground scientific research. If their suspicions were confirmed, evidence found in the warehouse and intel gathered from the underlings would likely lead them to the Lizard or Doctor Octopus, whose track records with unethical scientific methods were likely finding their expertise relevant to whatever their latest plan might be. It wasn't unusual for New York to face threats of a pathogenic nature at the hands of someone hoping to gain revenge on a society that left them behind. 

It was unusual for the methods to be so careless and filled with such haphazard responsibility that the disposal of essential evidence could be linked to the plot mere weeks into the operation's lifespan. 

Perhaps, with enough stealth and caution, the three of them could gather the threads they needed today to begin tearing the nefarious plot apart from its already fraying edges. After all, with enough loose threads, a single pull can shatter the integrity of anything that depends on a complex network of individuals to achieve success. 

Swinging around a tight corner, Peter caught sight of the purple archer crouched on the rooftop, his right hand anxiously fingering the handle of his bow as his left fiddled with the strap of his quiver. Natasha was nowhere in sight, and Peter saw Clint's muscles tense as he landed on the roof. Although the suit absorbed most of his feet's impact on the surface, the light pattering of his footsteps as his soles crossed the distance between Peter and Clint was enough to alert the older man to his presence without a single word leaving his lips. 

Crouching, Peter waited for Clint to speak, his eyes following Clint's line of sight until they came to rest upon the ocean waves crashing against the docks. A moment passed, and Peter rolled his shoulders, feeling his bones pop in his joints as their cartridge danced against his bruised and yellowed skin. It might be sickly, but it kept him together in ways his healing factor never could. After all, it only accelerated the mending of cuts and the growth of fractured bones. It was never meant to catch the rest of his faults. Although they were internal, their external manifestations left him covering up his mistakes from the world with breath mints and drugstore concealer. Peter wasn't sure if Clint could smell the spearmint on his breath that masked the vomit which had left his system shortly after he'd received the messages, a combination of yesterday's binge realization and the reminder that people were dying without reason. 

Before Peter could decide if it truly mattered whether or not Clint could detect the pungent aroma, a cleared throat and a hand on his shoulder brought Peter rapidly back to the present as his mind and body reconnected in the moment. It was as if his distant consciousness was reminded of its physical component as the light gravel under his knees sent pinpricks of irritating pain through his nerves. His senses were infected with their existence, and Peter realized that he'd sat down at some point while he had been lost in the waves. A slight turn of the head, and Clint's intense gaze met Peter's distant eyes, their unwavering, silent question fully grounding him. A slight nod from Peter saw Clint's hand leaving his shoulder after giving it a hard squeeze. It wasn't an explanation, but a confirmation that Peter was here with him now. After all, Clint knew what it was like to get lost in your own mind after Loki's manipulation of him during the Chitauri invasion. 

Peter was grateful that Clint recognized the weight questions could bring with them, and avoided unnecessary small-talk unless it was absolutely required. 

"So, what are we up against right now?" Peter's question broke the silence, and the remaining concern in Clint's eyes washed away as he refocused on the mission at hand. 

"Natasha's already inside. The rapport she built these past few weeks was enough to gain her access to this branch of their operation last night after she expressed interest in their newest 'business venture.' She slipped the lock on the skylight behind us earlier today, and we'll slip in through there. I"ll wait for her signal, and then we'll take down whatever piece of shit scumbags are in there taking part in whatever the hell's going on with all of this." Clint's grip had tightened on his bow, knuckles white against the stark ebony of the weapon. 

"I, uh - What should I be doing? How can I help?" Peter refrained from asking why he was there in the first place. It seemed that the two former spies had everything fully under control all by themselves. A third wheel would only knock them off-course. 

"Your job is to save those people. Anyone who needs help, anyone you can find to rescue - that's your focus." A friendly grin on Clint's face punctuated the claws Peter felt digging into his heart. "It's what you're best at, after all, Peter." Sweating palms and a racing heartbeat overwhelmed Peter's senses as his body became flushed with the overwhelming feeling of anxiety that was all too familiar to him. 

Maybe he saved most people. But he hadn't saved everyone, let alone some of the people that mattered the most to him. With his powers, that was on him. The hurt others felt, that he had the power to resolve but failed to, rested solely on his shoulders. 

"Yeah, of course. No problem, Clint. I'll do everything I can to get everyone out of there before the gunfire and fighting gets too heavy." It wasn't a question of if. The dread of more people meeting their end because Peter wasn't moving fast enough to save them settled in his gut. 

At least one person had to still be alive. It had been less than twenty-four hours since Natasha saw them enter the building. One person, and his mission here wouldn't be a complete failure. 

"You ready to go, kid?" Clint raised an eyebrow at Peter. A quick nod and they were slipping through the skylight with movements so quiet it merely sounded like a gust of wind had kissed the glass before moving onward. Their dual perch atop a stack of large wooden crates was short-lived as Clint leapt towards a nearby stack and into the darker depths of the warehouse. 

The short building was bathed in a darkness born of yellow-hued light-bulbs spread far and few between, hanging precariously from thin strings that swung in large arcs whenever they caught the shoulders of any individual passing by. A cursory glance around the room revealed rows of crates separating it into a labyrinth of slim artificial hallways and hushed criminal activities that ranged from lines of sorted baggies full of powdered addictions to heavy plastic cases housing ammunition and firepower potent enough to poison any population with death and corruption. 

Shifting his weight onto the ceiling, Peter crawled alongside the chipped off-white paint, eyes scanning for any sign of the people and activities Natasha had informed them of. It was likely they were shoved in a corner somewhere, strapped to counterfeit medical instruments and living under the threat of cold steel at the hands of their captors. He kept his senses heightened, thankful that his spider-sense had been honed over the years to only truly react when danger was imminent and nearby. The threat of the warehouse simply left it humming lightly and vibrating in his skin, a constant reminder of the problems that could arise at any moment. Working his way around a shelf stuffed flush with the ceiling, Peter felt his breath stop as he caught sight of what he'd been looking for. 

Three people, with wrists rubbed raw until red from the harsh ropes binding them to their makeshift cots, had mouths cracked and dripping red from the terrycloth shoved in between their teeth to keep their screams from reaching the notice of anyone who would care. Lazy IVs attached to bags of opaque lime liquid carried the mysterious mixture into their veins through their elbows, hands, and shoulders. Sections of their skin had been peeled back in strips, and one of them had a small scalpel sticking out of her arm as if whoever had been using it had been interrupted in the middle of their actions. It was undeniable that whatever was going on here was connected to the bodies that had been appearing around the city, for the iron smell in the air stung all of Peter's senses until it sunk into his skin. His nerves twitched due to the lack of pain accompanying the scent. 

He would need to get closer to start untying their bonds. From there, Peter could figure out who could stand, who needed to lean on him, and who required immediate medical assistance in the form of Peter's web fluid serving as a temporary cure-all for the wounds that wouldn't wait for the ambulances before singing their perish song. A quick glance revealed a single guard standing outside the corner the victims were trapped in, facing away from the cots and humming a simple tune as he fingered the gun in his hand. Three seconds later, he was webbed to the wall, complaints muffled in behind the web fluid as Peter dropped to the ground and walked over to the moment's priority. 

God, it was worse than he thought. Lenses widening in shock, Peter fought the urge to back away from the truth in front of him and instead leaned forward, picking up the woman's wrist and feeling for a pulse. 

There was none, and the scalpel fell to the concrete floor, clattering slightly before settling into the pools of blood that were seeping through the soles of his suit and staining Peter's feet. Beyond what he'd seen above, Peter now noticed that various medical instruments had been used to keep wounds around her body propped open. It appeared as if her skin had begun to heal itself around them, the tell-tale notes of a rudimentary healing factor. But it hadn't been enough to save her, and Peter didn't allow himself to linger on the sight for any longer before turning to the man beside her. 

He hoped that she had a family, and friends, who would remember her. That would bury her in a nice grave and talk about who she was before these people decided to ruin her life for - well, he wasn't quite sure yet. 

His movements more urgent, Peter grasped the wrist of the young man in front of him, shifting his fingers up towards the neck when his initial check didn't reveal any sign of a pulse. When the neck didn't reveal any sign of life, he touch dropped and Peter bit down on his lip until he felt blood enter his mouth and the skin of his lower lip tear in two. Dots of mercury rested on the man's skin, tiny rivulets branching off from them and seeping through his flesh until resting inside of his veins. Some of his body had been able to repel the element, but it had still found ways to seep into him until enough of the substance had poisoned his blood. Fighting the urge to punch the nearby wall and scream at the sight, Peter sent a silent wish to the stars that the man was peaceful now, wherever he might be resting in the afterlife. 

Turning away from the two deceased individuals, Peter walked towards the last cot in the corner, praying to a god he didn't believe in that they were still alive. Someone deserved to make it out of this hell, and move on from whatever these sick experiments were trying to accomplish. 

This man was slightly older than the others, still young but edging towards middle-aged. His skin was covered in old scars and new wounds, an odd salve filled with herbs rubbed deep into the gaping cuts. The body, seemingly in an attempt to rid itself of the foreign substance, was knitting itself back together. It wasn't that the wounds were healing - it seemed they had never existed in the first place, the corners of their edges foreign. With a start, Peter realized the older scars on the man's skin came from medical surgeries, likely the result of a life-long chronic illness. Hands shaking, Peter reached for the man's wrist and lightly placed his fingertips against the pulse-point, waiting for an impossibility. 

Distant gunfire turned Peter's spider-sense from a hum into a shrill whine. Natasha and Clint had started the party. In time with the music created from distant grunts and stray bullets finding new lodging in the cinder block walls, a faint pulse reverberated through Peter's fingertips and he recoiled slightly in shock. 

This man was still alive. 

A new urgency was present in his actions as Peter began to remove each of the IVs from the man's body, their needles leaving minute crimson pinpricks on his skin as a reminder of their prior existence. Unsure of what to do about the salve, Peter instead focused on the several areas of his arms and legs that had been peeled back in small strips, gently placing the skin back in place before webbing his body back together in order to help transport the man more safely. Slipping one of the man's arms around his neck, Peter began to slowly walk out of the makeshift hospital room. 

Hearing a small groan next to his ear, Peter noticed that the man had returned to consciousness. 

"Hey! Hey, I'm Spider-Man. I'm working on getting you out of here right now. You're going to be okay. I just need you to do everything you can to help us move forward, okay? I've got you, but I want to make sure you don't accidentally get more hurt, alright?" A pause as they rounded the corner, the distant gunfire growing louder as they moved towards its source. "What's your name?" 

"Jim." It was weak and cracked, the voice of a man who'd stared at death too many times to be afraid of it anymore. "Jim Hawkins." 

"Alright, Jim! Jim's a great name. I know a guy named Jim down at the 5th street deli. He always gives people extra toppings on their subs - never lets them pay for them, though." Peter felt the man's weight relax into his side again. He needed to pick up the pace. "You should go there soon, tell him Spider-Man sent you. Best sandwiches in all of New York. You won't regret it." Silence stretched onward as Peter weaved in and out of the warehouse's claustrophobic corridors. The flashes of gunfire were popping in his vision now. There were less of them, but Clint and Natasha hadn't taken everyone down yet. "Hey, Jim? You still with me?" 

A small grunt came from Peter's side, and his shoulders sagged slightly in relief only to immediately grow rigid in fear once more. The barrel of a gun was staring him down, its owner having hid around the corner until Peter was halfway around it. His spider-sense had been screaming prior to the weapon's appearance, but Peter had chocked it up to the happenings around him instead of any immediate danger. 

"Hey, buddy, nice gun you got there. Mind putting it down so we can talk things out like big boys?" Peter shifted slightly, moving Jim from resting on his shoulder to resting on his back. "Didn't your mom teach you to play nice? I don't think pointing a gun in Spider-Man's face qualifies as playing nice, man." 

"Shut the fuck up, and hand him over to me." The man's finger was twitching over the trigger, his stance antsy. 

"What, ol' Jim here? I'm gonna have to pass on that one, big guy. He's coming with me." Peter contemplated his options, face paling under the mask as he realized how few there truly were in his current situation. His fingers fiddled with his web-shooters, looking for a way to disarm his assailant before he could get a shot off. 

"No, he's not. That subject is the closest we've gotten to success so far. I'm not letting you leave with that valuable of a resource." His way of referring to Jim crawled under Peter's skin and deeply unsettled him. The person clinging to him wasn't an object.

"Well, I'm sorry to be the one to have to break it to you, but I can't let you do that." A few moments passed, Peter and the man contemplating their options as Jim slumped further towards the ground. Peter didn't have time for this - he needed to get Jim out _now_. 

"And I can't let you do _that_." Realization burst into life in Peter's bones as the man's intent was born into existence. His reaction was immediate, web fluid shooting directly towards the gun and his body twisting to protect Jim as the path of the bullet changed from being directed at Peter's skull to that of their experimental victim. 

Peter's aim was off, however, for the man twisted to avoid its path, the sticky fluid coming to rest on his back. Quickly resting Jim against the nearest crate while the assailant was distracted, Peter shot a string of fluid towards the ceiling and hopped upwards, his body swinging in a small arc until his feet planted themselves in the middle of the man's chest, sending him sprawling backwards. Dropping his hold on the makeshift rope, Peter placed one of his feet on top of the man as he went to begin webbing him up. He found his center of balance shifting towards the floor as the man grabbed his ankle with enough force to twist the bone, the sprain disrupting Peter's motions.

Quickly rolling back onto his feet and ignoring the twinge of pain in his ankle, Peter faced the man head-on, for he had also recovered in the time that it took for Peter to regain his senses. Catching a right hook headed towards his jaw, Peter was so preoccupied with landing a hit of his own that he forgot about the gun. A single shot reminded him of its existence, and that simple horror set the path of his punch solid as the hit knocked his opponent out cold. 

Scrambling, Peter tripped over his feet as he returned to Jim. A new hole was present in the man's chest, blood lazily dripping out of the entrance wound as Jim coughed, jostling the bullet now trapped inside of his body. Panicking, Peter ripped the gloves off his suit, and fashioned make-shift gauze out of some web fluid before plugging the bullet hole. Applying steady pressure over the wound, Peter's bare hands allowed him to better control the situation, but the sight of Jim's blood slowly staining his palms crimson as the bloodstain grew in size left Peter reeling. Distantly, his brain recognized that the sounds of the fight had lessened, its location mere feet from his current position. 

Peter wasn't sure how much time passed before he felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up to meet Natasha's unreadable eyes. He hadn't seen her in a while, and she seemed more tired than usual. There was something in her expression Peter couldn't place. It wasn't sympathy or pity, but something closer to understanding. She crouched into a kneel, and slowly reached for Peter's hands. Once they came to rest on his, Peter realized she was trying to get him to loosen his grip. 

"Natasha, I - I can't let go. He's going to die if I loosen this pressure. I already plugged the wound, we just need to wait for an ambulance to get here. Did you and Clint take care of everything? Is everyone down?" His words were frantic and lacking their usual light air. 

"He's already dead, Peter." Natasha removed his hands from Jim's body, and shifted her grip to Peter's shoulders, slowly pushing him back from the scene. 

"What? No, no, he's going to be fine." They were standing, walking away from the pool of blood Peter hadn't realized he'd been sitting in. "He's gonna be fine." 

"It's not your fault, Peter. You did everything you could." She paused before rubbing small circles of comfort into his upper back as they entered the main area of the warehouse. Several dozen men were lying around them, passed out in various positions. 

"Hey, you found him! Everything we found here today is really going to help us narrow down which bastard is - Hey, Peter, are you alright?" Clint quickly crossed the space between them, abandoning the arrow he'd been polishing on the ground. He flanked Peter's opposite side, and helped Natasha lead him outside. 

Once the ocean breeze hit the trio, Peter stalled in his stride and broke out of their hold. Clint and Natasha merely watched as he turned to face them, Peter's face blank as guilt consumed his intestines and left his body reeling from its newfound lack of ability to process anything it took in. 

"I'm fine." Skepticism broke out on the spies' faces as their eyebrows both rose in skepticism. "Really, I will be. It's not everyday someone dies in your arms, right? I've been there, done that. Just let me wallow with a few tubs of ice cream and several bad Netflix movies for a bit. I'll bounce back better than ever soon enough." 

"Go home, Peter," said Clint, his tone even. "You've done all you can here. You can't help us now." Peter couldn't feel his face anymore.

"Take care of yourself, alright?" Natasha was looking him in the eye, challenging Peter to defy her. "We'll keep you updated." Why was his body so numb? 

"Yeah, okay, I'll, uh - I've got some homework to do." Peter's words faded with every syllable, trailing off with the weakness of his personal excuse to leave the warehouse before he fully fell apart. He turned, ready to swing back towards his apartment as Natasha spoke up once more. 

"You'll let us know if you need anything?" It sometimes felt like she could see right through all of Peter's bullshit. 

"Yeah, of course. Let me know if I can help with any of the new leads, okay?" His bare hands stood in stark contrast with his suit, their stained skin mocking him. 

"We will," said Clint. 

A few moments passed before Peter flicked his wrist toward a nearby construction crane, web fluid catching its arm and lifting Peter upwards. He began to swing through the city, the remnants of Jim's blood leaving the strings of his web fluid bubble gum pink in Peter's wake. Their newfound color melted into the early sunset of the evening, and Peter found himself wishing he could melt into the drifting colors of the skyline, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry that this update didn't come as fast as the last few did. i had some catching up to do in my courses, and it's mid-terms season at my college rn. i don't know if i'll be able to update again before the upcoming weekend, but by that point i'll be on spring break!! almost two weeks of (mostly) free time to spend writing. i'm hoping to get a lot done with this then. thank you for reading, and let me know if there's anything you'd want to see happen in the future. 
> 
> also, stay tuned because *smash announcer voice* there's a new challenger approaching!! next chapter will see the introduction of a character most of you probably won't see coming!!


	5. when the storm ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long time no see. life had me down for a while. new tags. check them out, and stay safe.

By the time his feet landed inside his apartment, Peter wasn't sure of his own name anymore. His body was numb, detached from the empty plain his mind was residing in as he stumbled towards his bedroom, knees giving out as his fingers scrambled for any semblance of a hold on the doorknob. Rather than stand, he let himself fall into a ball, head tucked into his knees as his hands embedded themselves in his greasy hair and pulled out small clumps, tangled in their unkempt state. He wasn't even trying to control his breathing and manage his lungs as oxygen strangled his blood and left his mind spinning in disbelief. It was impossible to remember how he'd gotten there, why he'd fallen down, what had led up to this point. The blood all over his suit was staining the floor, leaving crimson tracks on the hardwood as Peter hovered between blacking out and severing his tongue with his angular teeth. 

He would need to clean that later, when he wasn't falling out of existence. 

Before he knew it, Peter was in the bathroom, cool tile burning square imprints into his cheek as he gulped for air. Propping himself up onto his elbows, Peter felt a tidal wave of half-digested pizza erupt out of his throat. It slipped up his nose and mouth, leaving a peach-tinted trail in the half-caulked grooves of the tile as chicken and cheese clogged the floor's drain and landed between the cracks of his fingers. It wasn't intentional, but now it was necessary. Peter merely leaned closer to the vomit, and let the smell work its job, too tired to shove his scarred and aching fingers down the hidden canals of his throat. It was too much, really, watching the liquid spread beneath his knees, hide under his fingernails, cover the floor of his bathroom in its sickly sweet concoction. But Peter couldn't stop, and he already felt so dirty. What harm would a little poison do next to the corroding blood hiding on his skin? 

It was only when his hands were submerged in his own half-digested bodily fluids that Peter stopped, mouth coated in vomit and ears ringing in the silence that followed his retches. He squeezed his eyes shut, ignoring the way his suit stuck to his body as he slowly made his way to his feet, clinging onto the sink in order to stay upright. Peter needed to shower, scrub at his skin until all evidence of the day was hidden down the drain and he couldn't feel his mistakes dancing across his body anymore. His mask was already forgotten, discarded in some corner of his apartment, as his fingers fought for purchase with the edges of Peter's suit, wedging their digits in between live-wire nerves and ragged latex. 

He had waited too long to remove the suit, so as his second skin left his body it took away all of the half-formed scabs and congealed blood with it. Peter's skin was aching, gaping as the freshly uncovered skin, devoid of its protective layers, met its match under his shower's jet steam of boiling hot water. It was as efficient as a fire hose, power-washing in its mission, seeking to even out the missteps of his body while shaving down his wounds. Peter wasn't sure where this left him, grounded or floating, as the pain brought forth fresh waves of blood. Hands clutching an off-white bar of soap, he scrubbed until his hair was thinner and his body dimmer, dulled in its tone in the absence of any healthy glimmer. 

Flipping his shower dial back into the off position, Peter leaned into the stall's walls, breathing in the soapy residue of his evening. He was clean, and there was no evidence of Jim's death left on him. Save from his dirty suit, soiled bathroom, and the blood stains haunting his bedroom doorway, it was as if it had never happened. As if Peter hadn't failed again, and let everyone down that had ever trusted him. 

Even now, in the late evening glow of his apartment, he was alone. Natasha and Clint hadn't followed him back, and his phone hadn't chirped with any notifications. They were busy putting together the pieces of what was happening in this city to the people he should have been saving. 

Here he was, naked and afraid, shivering in the shower and waiting for the droplets of water on his skin to freeze from the draft curling around his ankles and dragging him back to reality. 

Leaving his towel hanging, Peter slowly edged his way around the vomit coating the bathroom floor until he crossed the threshold of the small room. The puddles left in his wake pooled anxiously, mixing with the blood and stomach acid until it created a half-baked concoction best left for boiling summer days instead of the awkward bathroom haze. He walked into his bedroom and headed for the pile of half-clean, half-dirty clothes piled near his bed, picking out a stray tank top and pair of sweatpants before mechanically shoving his limbs into the cotton fabric in a vein attempt at covering up the parts of himself he hated the most. 

Peter shambled towards the kitchen, filling up a glass once, twice, three times as he swallowed enough water to clean out the acrid taste of vomit from his throat. There was nothing to be done about his nose, coated with the scent of bile and reminding him of the purge every time he breathed. Sighing, Peter made sure to pick up his phone from its discarded location near the windowsill before retiring to his bed for the night. 

It was tempting, in too many ways, to find some other way to numb himself now that he'd come down from the temporary high of dissociation. The idea of sitting with Jim's death while pondering the events of the day in the darkness of his room, let alone questioning his actions again and again, seemed unbearable. But Peter's eyes were drooping, and his skin was raw, so he merely set his phone's alarm for the morning and curled up underneath his blankets until he forgot how to blink and fell asleep. 

Because life goes on, even if it felt life his was perpetually finished. 

Too soon, soft chimes and annoying melodies infected his brain, and Peter found himself awake as sunlight filtered into his room through the cracks in his blinds. Quickly turning his phone over, snoozing the alarm, Peter groaned and sat up, wincing as his skin pulled and resisted movement. It wasn't quite healed, and it cracked as his muscles shifted. Peter merely pulled his knees into his chest and rested his chin on the steeples his bones created, distantly gazing at a fly on his wall. He stretched his hands, watching small cuts move across his joints in the early morning light. 

These were the hands that couldn't save people. What use was Spider-Man if he couldn't even do that? What was a superhero that couldn't stop the villains, let alone save the innocent? What did it matter if he stopped putting on the suit? 

But if he stopped, then his powers were lying stagnant. Peter couldn't stand the idea of living with his abilities and not doing _anything_. That would be worse than failure. He wouldn't even be trying to make something of himself then. The best parts of himself had always been other people, and his ability to shove his own problems down in order to help others. Without that, he was nothing. 

A soft buzz tickles Peter's thigh, and he fully turns off his alarm before standing and preparing for the day. Mondays meant getting dressed, going to class, and burning empty hours at work before returning home. He would crash for a few hours before patrolling during the evening. Peter slipped into his binder and a ratty pair of boxers before pulling on a pair of jeans and an old hoodie from high school. He toed on his sneakers and hooked his untouched backpack over one of his shoulders, shaking his hair until it appeared stylishly messy instead of simply unkempt. Peter wasn't entirely sure it worked, but at least the strands were out of his eyes now. A momentarily lapse of thought left him searching for his webshooters and suit, his clearer mind blanking on the events of the previous day until the rancid stink of the bathroom met his senses and the dirtied suit caught his gaze. 

"Fucking hell." 

Making a mental note to clean his suit when he got home later, Peter grabbed his wallet and keys from their place near the door before heading out of his building and down the street, ducking into the subway. It wasn't long before his bag was resting between his legs and his head was balancing on the skinny strip of metal between the rattling windows of the train. Every few seconds, his skull would bounce forwards before falling backwards, smacking the half-screwed metal bits and bobs the city couldn't manage to properly handle. It was refreshing, to fall into the sounds of the track and half-bitten murmurs. Peter was allowed to merely exist in between the squealing wheels and electric power, and be like any other tired college student on the train already wishing their day was long over. 

Too soon, his route was finished and Peter's feet were carrying him up the tunnels, through the streets, down brick paths, and through empty halls until he was seated in the back of a classroom half-awake and waiting for the beginning of a lecture that wouldn't teach him how to save himself, let alone anyone else. He was too old for these tired courses and their false academia, pretending to be important in order to support the idea that knowledge itself is useful. 

But Peter knew exactly what he needed to do the day before, and he'd still failed. He watched as his pencil lead shattered under his hands and his notes became covered in graphite, and waited for the hour to be up before moving to another building, another room, another professor all holding the same meaningless sentiments. A lab later practiced restraint and its counterparts as Peter tested different formulas, waiting for a eureka moment to appear. It never did. He volunteered to stay after and clean up the mess, racking up extra credits points alongside an opportunity to make some extra web fluid. Peter had the means to do so back at his apartment, but it cost less and was more efficient to do in the lab. For the amount he paid in tuition, it was the least the university could do for him. 

It was the afternoon by the time he left his school's deserted campus, and entered the bustling crowd of the city streets. Peter allowed himself to be swept away to his job. The pizza shop was only a few blocks away, and he was exchanging half-hearted high-fives and greetings with his fellow co-workers within minutes. A dusty apron and several pounds of pizza dough later, Peter found himself elbow-deep in flour and tomato sauce as the front door jangled open. A few moments passed as Peter waited to hear the customer's order being taken before he remembered that everyone else had clocked out for the night. Swearing under his breath, Peter wiped his hands on a stray dish towel before picking up an order pad and coming up to the front. Pen poised and ready, Peter didn't think to look upwards as he launched into the usual spiel. 

"So sorry about that, didn't realize I was the only one in right now. What can I get you? Specials today include -"

"Peter Parker, is that you? I'll be damned." Glancing upwards, Peter restrained his jaw from hanging open in shock. 

In front of him was the one and only Harry Osborn. Wrinkled designer clothes and tousled hair, paired with an easy-going smile and a mischievous look in his eyes, belonged to Peter's only surviving childhood best friend. He hadn't seen or heard from him after Gwen passed. Harry supposedly hadn't left the country until after MJ died a little over a year later, but he'd been as good as dead to Peter long before his European vanishing act. 

And here he was, happy as ever, waiting to order a pizza from a shitty restaurant on a Monday evening in New York as if nothing had ever changed. As if they had never changed. 

"Harry, I, what? When did you, uh, get back?" Peter dropped the pad, pushed his hair out of his face, tried to look like he hadn't just crawled out of a trash can on Fifth Avenue. 

"Just yesterday, actually. I never expected to run into you. Man, it's been too long, Pete! How have things been? What've you been up to?" Harry was leaning on the counter, carefree excitement bubbling through his fingertips and into the counter-top, infecting the air with useless optimism. 

"Um, not much. Just, you know," Peter didn't know what to do, how to make it clear that he wasn't still as hopeless as he was seven years ago when he was thirteen and struggling to make it through Ben's death. When he was fourteen and May died. When he was fifteen and got Gwen killed. When he was sixteen and MJ took her last breath in his arms. "School. Work. Making ends meet, just like always." 

"Well, I wasn't really going to be up to anything tonight. You should get off early! We can hang out, catch up, ya know. Like old times." 

"I can't really, um, do that. I'm the only one on duty," said Peter, anxiously chewing his lip. "You know, job." 

Harry pushed himself up off the counter and walked back to the main door, flipping the open sign to closed before locking the door and flipping the blinds shut. Clearly satisfied with himself, he turned around, raising his eyebrows at Peter. 

"And what about now? No one else is going to be coming in tonight." 

"My boss will be mad about that, you know, because of potential lost profits." Peter didn't know why he was making so many excuses. It was late in the evening, and no one would likely be stopping in for their shitty pizza, anyways. "Might miss out on those big bucks." He mouth popped the beginning of "bucks" wide, leaving the air in the restaurant bubbling with anxiety. He watched as Harry pulled out his wallet from his back pocket and slapped a hundred on the counter. 

"There, alright? That good enough? Or will they want more." Harry wasn't playing around as much now. "I just want some time to hang out with my best friend, Pete. It's been years." Peter felt his throat bob as his shook his head. 

"Yeah, okay, let me just. Clean up." Peter had only just turned his back when Harry spoke up once more. 

"Seeing as I originally stopped in for pizza, grab some if something's ready? You look like skin and bones, man. We could both use the food." Ignoring his shaking hands, Peter agreed and disappeared into the back as Harry settled into the cleanest booth, kicking a dirty napkin to the ground. "I've missed you, dude. It'll be nice to catch up." 

As soon as absent eyes weren't watching him, Peter let out a heavy sigh and gripped the kitchen counter-top. He ripped his apron off, the strings suddenly feeling as if they were choking him. Forcing himself to control his breathing, Peter rushed to clean up the kitchen, shoving ingredients into their respective storage categories and plating the last two pizzas that had been hovering in the oven prior to Harry's arrival. Their pepperoni was greasy, dripping amber liquid onto the silver platters as Peter forced a dull pizza cutter through the crust, nicking the edge of his finger. Before carrying them out to the front, Peter found his backpack and hooked it over his shoulder. Just in case someone were to come in through the back and dig through his belongings without his permission. Privacy wasn't exactly of the utmost importance in their back-door establishment. 

"Took you long enough." An easy smile matched Harry's tone as Peter placed the pizza on the table and did a faux bow. 

"Just for you, monsieur." Plopping into the opposite side of the booth, Peter watched absently as Harry dug into the grease-traps, mouth full as he moaned in delight. 

"God, they just don't know how to make the good shit over there. Like, if I'm getting pizza, I'm not wanting to be healthy, you know? God, Pete, thanks." 

"It's no problem, kind of my job, you know." Peter shoved his hands into his sweatshirt pocket, ignoring the stains littering his clothing while leaning into the cheap plastic of the booth.

"Speaking of which, why work at this place, man? Why not some fancy science lab like my dad's? Isn't that what you wanted to do?" Harry's brow rose in a questioning manner. "Also, dig in man, it's not gonna bite. Don't worry about the cost. I know you, Peter, you can't fool me. Some pizza's not gonna break the bank." Thank god that's all Harry thought it was. Peter picked up a slice, watching it bend into the curve of his wrist before picking off a pepperoni slice and gnawing it to pieces between his teeth. 

"Yeah, working on that. I can't exactly just jump into that without, you know, money or connections. Which is why I'm in school, getting at least half of that. I'm interning at Stark Industries, at least. It doesn't pay, but gives me practice." Peter took a bite of the pizza, feeling the sticky cheese cling to his throat on the way down. Last night came back to him, and he resisted the urge to excuse himself and hurl the cursed nutrients out of his body. "I mean, I also have The Bugle. Photos and all that. Still using the camera your dad got for me when we were, like, twelve. Keeps me busy enough. But what about you? I know you were thinking of the same thing way back when." 

"Well," Harry glanced down at his current slice, playing with the grease pooled in a pepperoni piece. "After Gwen, and especially after MJ, I just had to get away. From all of this, from everything in the city that reminded me of them and the monsters that took them from us. It wasn't fair, that it happened. Mom and I figured another continent would suffice, and it did. It really did. It gave me a chance to be a different person, really. I'm still interested in science, of course, but I want to help people now. Do something with prosthetic design, medicine, the like. Not mindless busywork for big business like my dad." 

"So, you came back? To do that?" 

"I came back. To do that." 

"Good for you, Harry, really. I'm happy for you." Peter swallowed his thoughts, the abandonment, the worry, the wondering if childhood best friends were always abandoned alongside childhood innocence. "I always wondered what became of you." 

"I am - I am sorry, Peter. I should have called, or texted, or something over the years. I just, needed some space. You know?" Harry was smiling that crooked smile of his again, eyes crinkled around the edges and easiness winding his shoulders closed. 

"I know." Peter didn't. But he did. He didn't want to admit that. 

"I was always worried about you. Losing everyone so quickly like that, I suppose I was pretty selfish to leave you behind when I left." Harry had been. "Forgive me? Maybe we were always meant to reconnect here." 

"How so?" 

"Well, you see, I need more people on hand for the latest research project at Oscorp. You could always swing by, check it out?" Peter bit his lip, ducked his head down, ripped another chunk off his slice of pizza and forced it down his throat. 

"I don't know, Harry. I'm pretty busy." Was Harry's idea of rekindling their friendship a job offer? 

"We pay, unlike Stark. You know us Osborns better than that. We value people, Peter. I value you." It was. "You're one of my best friends, man! C'mon, what do you say?" Harry wasn't going to let this drop. 

"I'll come by. You can show me around. Okay, Harry? No promises." Peter quirked his lips upward in a half-smile. "We're not kids, anymore. I'm not just gonna follow you around and join in on whatever your latest scheme is." 

"I know, I know. It's just. I miss you, Pete. It's been years. Maybe this is the best chance we have to really get back together again, just like the old days. What's wrong with wanting that?" Harry had demolished one of the pizzas, and shoved the empty platter beneath the other - mostly full - one. "Don't you miss me?" And, god, did Peter miss Harry. Did he miss having friends, people who cared about him, wanted him to succeed, didn't just view him as another piece in their plans. 

"Of course I do, Harry." Harry's watch beeped, and he glanced down at it, taking his eyes off Peter. "I'm free Wednesday afternoon, if you are." 

"I'm always free for you, man. Just message me with a time, okay? Here, hand me your phone." Peter passed his cracked device over to Harry, and watched the man quickly add his information into Peter's contact list. "I gotta dash, okay? But I'll see you soon, I promise. This was just our first glimpse of catching up. You're not getting away from me again, Parker!" Peter laughed hollowly at the joke, curling forwards a bit as Harry stood and playfully slapped Peter's shoulder. 

"Alright, Harry. See you soon." 

"I'll see you around, kid. Make sure to take the rest of that pizza home! You're not going hungry on my watch." Harry had always been protective, and now he was gone, disappearing into the night with a bounce in his step and a whistle on his tongue. 

Peter sighed, and found himself watching Harry depart from his seat in the booth until he was out of his sight. He quickly stood, dumping the extra pizza in the trash before heading out himself, contemplating swinging back home before remembering his abysmal lack of webshooters. Resigning himself to the evening hours of the subway, Peter began walking only to feel his phone jostle in his hoodie pocket, signaling a message. 

He unlocked his phone, quickly skimming the message's contents. Stark wanted him at the lab bright and early tomorrow. It wasn't unusual for Tony to remind Peter of their weekly science sessions on Tuesdays, but the early morning request caught him off-guard. What did he want that was so time-sensitive? 

_Found some worrying data from the info gathered by Widow and Birdbrain on Sunday. Need your help analyzing it._

It could never be something as simple as an early-morning team breakfast of lemon-drizzled blueberry pancakes and French-pressed coffee, could it? 

_Bruce and Strange will be there, too. Need all hands on deck._

**_alright. i'll be there bright and early._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long absence. this fic isn't abandoned, and will never be. there just might be long breaks between chapters at times, like the one that just happened. i just. couldn't bring myself to write on top of everything else. everything is mostly planned out, but i'm open to suggestions if someone flies an interesting idea my way. sorry if the writing feels a bit off, getting back into the swing of things. look for the next chapter soon (i hope). gotta love our science bros.


	6. live wire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check the tags c: there's some new ones.

Peter found it deeply comforting that his mind always fell into a blank emptiness whenever he traveled the subways late at night. Similar to the short circuiting that occured whenever he traversed a similar path hundreds of times, the lull of the train mixed with the static white noise of scraping wheels, the crunch of scratched metal walls crunching against the cracked tunnels, and at least one snoring passenger left him dissociated and completely absent from the current reality the world was presenting him. It was nice in a way, to block out the transitions that too often became mundane and soul-crushing. If nothing else, the art of being able to check out of his current situation for a few blessed minutes, to travel from the pizza shop to his apartment in the seeming blink of an eye felt like too big a relief to be granted to Peter Parker on any given day of the week. 

And now, now Peter stood outside the door of his apartment, fingers fumbling and keys jangling as he searched for the piece of metal that guaranteed his entry into the overpriced piece of real estate he was lucky enough to call home. Eventually, it was found, inserted into the lock, and wrenched violently to the left. 

The smell of vomit, blood, and acrid body odor hit his senses before Peter could even begin to comprehend them. Nose scrunched high, Peter crossed the threshold of his doorway cautiously, flipping the lock absentmindedly as he contemplated what the source of the smell could possibly be. His eyes flicked to the left and - 

Oh. How could he have forgotten? 

His suit, the vomit, the blood stains. All the filth he'd promised himself he would clean when he got home just this morning, before Harry or Stark or any of the other meaningless events of the day. 

Part of Peter wanted to leave it be, to let his messes rot another day, or three, or five. To let them grow mold and stain the floor. It would be so easy to, to enter his bedroom, close the door, and let his inability to do anything productive exist out of his line of sight. Doing so wouldn't rid himself of the problem, but it would let Peter _sleep_. It would let him pretend that his life wasn't this far out of control. That would be easier than forcing his tired body to move, to pick up after himself in the ways no one else would. Because Peter was an adult, goddammit, and adults should be able to see something that needs to be done and just _do it_. 

So here he stood, baggy sweatshirt draped over his body, hands shaking and feet refusing to move. Peter ground his teeth, swallowed his pride, and ran dirty fingers through his greasy hair absentmindedly. He knew there were two energy drinks in his fridge, the cheap kind they filled with more caffeine to pretend they didn't taste like piss and vinegar. Walking to the fridge, he wrenched one of the cans from its mildly icy tomb, popping the tab and guzzling half of the liquid contents within seconds. And now, he waited, holding a hand inches from his eyes, waiting for its shakes to turn into a true earthquake. 

The natural disaster didn't take long to arrive. Within minutes, Peter's nerves were jumping over his bones, compelling him to move, act, _do_. Downing the rest of the can, Peter set the empty metal shell on the counter as he fell into a crouch, wrenching the cabinets under the kitchen sink open in order to retrieve everything he would need. Their abrasive properties were already threatening to eat his skin as bleach and an unmarked bottle of a lemon-scented mystery landed on his kitchen floor. Peter rolled up his sleeves, the extra fabric falling back over the elastic fabric bunched along the fold of his elbows. He blinked, realizing his lack of mixing vehicle for the pungent liquids. Pulling out an old piece of Tupperware, Peter dumped the cleaning agents haphazardly into the aged plastic walls. 

The mild fumes didn't stop Peter from getting up, walking into his bathroom, and dropping to his knees, bleach dotting the knees of his already wrecked jeans as the container settled onto the grimy tiles. Wired fingers dip into the mixture created moments ago, and start scrubbing at the dried bodily waste Peter had left behind last night in his careless wake. 

Yes, he should have used gloves, or a sponge, or a cloth. But that would slow him down, stop this burst of energy, prevent him from finishing this monumental task that he's now started. So Peter lets the bleach find its way under his fingers, burning his nail beds, as his knuckles scrape and scrape, leaving flakes of dried stomach acid in their wake. The pile of Peter's efforts grows with congealed blood droplets clinging to pineapple chunks, chicken mixing with pastel orange creamsicle vomit, and sweat meeting cheese until it becomes grease. He stops momentarily, yanking his towel off the cheap command hook, almost ripping the plastic and cheap adhesive from its precious hold on the drywall. And he mops up the mess, fingers resting in the grooves between tiles and scrubbing until the only thing that remains is their ancient grout and gritty trade show finish. Peter's fingernails scrape and pull at the few remaining spots of filth in front of his eyes, absorbing each new freed artifact of the aftermath of the warehouse. 

Now, there's nothing left, besides a dirtied towel, a torn-up suit, and Peter's cracked and bleeding hands. It's been moments. It's been hours. 

What's left to do? The laundry. The task that can clean up the rest of the evidence until nothing remained of his idiotic breakdown. Peter's grabs the towel and the remains of his suit, leaving the bathroom behind, its shining tiles and empty Tupperware container haunting the space even as his hip flips the light switch off. There's still the stains in the hardwood, haunting his hallway as Peter's feet carry him towards the beat-up washer and dryer unit, forgotten until he was out of underwear and on the third day of wearing his last pair. Those stains weren't coming out, not out of the wood that suck it up into its grains until it turned the dull walnut into a cherry red finish. Before his eyes can leave the floor, their admiration of the new homemade finish, his foot catches on a piece of fabric and Peter remembers. 

His mask. That's right. It wasn't with everything else. Peter scoops it into his armfuls of soiled fabric, watching a piece of pineapple fall off the towel and onto one of the scratched eye lenses. It slid down, threatened to fall as everything was shoved into the washer. As he went to slam the machine's door closed, Peter realized just how filthy his own clothes had become from his up close and personal cleaning binge. Stripping the dirtied garments from his body, Peter found himself in his underwear and binder, pouring detergent into its cap. The soap overflowed slightly, dripping down the edges of its plastic cup, seeping into the cracks of his skin. It stung, but the same actions repeated with fabric softener found those same wounds conditioned into humility. Closing the lid, Peter watched as his fingers left purple-blue rivers in their wake.

The spin cycle started, swirling and twisting as Peter stilled. He was already coming down from the small burst of energy, thanks to his enhanced metabolism. Peter returned to the fridge, grabbed the other drink, and guzzled it down his throat until his lungs were aching, begging for a break to catch a bit of air. 

And he did stop, once the can was empty. 

The sky outside his window offered him little clues as to what hour of the night Peter currently found himself awake in. The inky blue could mean midnight or minutes before sunrise. His phone, discarded at his feet from where it had fallen out of his sweatshirt pocket, buzzed and shook as its vibrations moved it towards Peter's feet. Picking it up, Peter squinted at the bright screen in the relative darkness of his apartment. It was 3:45, and his custom alarm sought to remind him of two news articles that were due by tonight. (Because it was Tuesday now, wasn't it?) 

Not for the first time, Peter questioned why he had decided to work two jobs on top of being Spider-Man. But, almost immediately, he knew the answer to his age-old question: bills. 

Retrieving his laptop from his bedroom, as well as a well-worn pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt branded with a science pun, Peter made his way to the couch. After shrugging the comfortable clothes on, he pressed his spine into one of the corners of the couch, wedging his limbs into the tiny space until his knees were pulled into his chest. Laptop balanced atop their precarious perch, Peter pulled up a Google document and got to work. 

Perks of doing freelance journalism? Flexible hours, the ability to work from home, and wearing whatever the fuck you want while doing it. The downsides? Well, Peter actually had to find the time and motivation to get it done. 

Luckily, his hands were currently skipping over the keys as he obtained all the objective truths he needed to compile the mindless stories Peter knew no one would actually read upon their posting. A switch had flipped inside him, spurring him forward with the want to go, go, _go_. Peter needed to get everything done _now_ before it left and he returned to his normal, unmotivated, slob of a self. That fear, of receding back into his usual self, kept the engines running as dozens of tabs, too many words per minute, and grammar checkers carried him into the early morning. 

By the time Peter finalized his stories, and posted them to The Daily Bugle's website, both the city and Peter were rising. "Bright and early" had arrived, much more quickly than Peter would have expected mere hours ago when he had stood outside the pizza shop, messaging Stark. Changing into something more similar to the standards of acceptable when it came to walking around in public, Peter found himself ruffling his hair into a mess that seemed more trendy than unkempt. His clean jeans, t-shirt, and flannel felt odd, opposed to his normal half-dirty, half-clean lounge-wear that he spent most days rotting inside. He ignored the way his ribs were aching, shaking from how long the binder had been pressed against his skin. But Peter could still breathe. It wasn't a problem yet.

Moving about his apartment, Peter shoved his backpack full of anything he might need, including his now-dry suit, some half-crunched granola bars, and empty water bottle. At some point in the night, he had switched his load of laundry into the dryer, but the insignificant detail of doing so seemed to have slipped Peter's mind. Tucking his laces into his sneakers and grabbing his keys, Peter stilled as he came to a realization. 

He hadn't gone on his patrol last night. _Shit_. Here's to hoping that Tony wouldn't mention his absence at any point today. The billionaire always kept tabs on everyone's super-hero activity. 

The thought rattled in his brain as Peter fell into New York's swarm of foot traffic, following the mashes through the streets and subways until his stood in front of the Avengers Tower. Rather than climb the tower today, Peter opted to walk through the lobby, flash the intern badge Tony had created for him long ago, and enter the elevator. As it rose, floor after floor, higher and higher towards the lab, Peter fiddled with the fraying inner edge of the flannel and prepared himself for whatever updated news Stark had to share with him about murderous serial killer situation. 

With a ding, the elevator came to a stop as it reached the level of the lab, and the doors opened to reveal Tony and Bruce arguing about the semantics of Tolkien's elvish language at the far end of the lab, picking at a breakfast bar of blueberries, muffins, and yogurt. Peter's entrance in the room wasn't enough to distract them from their conversation, so he walked over to them, tapped Tony's shoulder, and laughed in amusement as the inventor jumped, swearing. 

"Jesus, kid! What was that for?" 

"Morning to you, too, Tony. Morning, Bruce," Peter said, sitting beside them and smirking as Tony levered a light-hearted glare his way. His gaze scanned the table in front of him, landing hungrily on an apple cinnamon muffin. Perfect.

"Good morning, Peter," said Bruce, fingers pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "Sleep well?" 

"Yup," Peter said, popping the "p" on the end of the word as he slowly peeled the wrapper away from the edges of the muffin. Thoughts of calories danced at the edges of his mind, but he pushed them away in favor of thinking about the metabolism-boosting properties the ingredients of the baked good contained. "What's the news? It has to be big if you called me in this early." 

"We're still waiting on Strange to get here before we dive into it," said Tony, brow furrowing as he took in the deep circles like bruises under Peter's eyes and the way he was hunched over the muffin as if it was the only thing giving him life at the moment. It only deepened as he took in the cracks and blisters on Peter's hands. "You okay, kid?" 

"Yes, Tony, I'm fine." Peter wasn't looking his way, picking a chunk of dough out of the muffin and shoving it into his mouth. It would be humorous, the way he inhaled the food, if the fingers aiding in his actions weren't so skeletal looking. 

"When the last time you ate?" Tony's question came across as more of an order. 

"Last night," Peter stated flatly, flicking a piece of apple Tony's way. "You know my job gives me free pizza at the end of my shifts." He left out the fact that his childhood best friend had shown up and talked to him for the first time in years. It wasn't relevant to the question at hand. 

Tony let out a deep sigh, and Peter tensed. Peter noticed out of the corner of his eye that Tony was reaching to place a hand on his shoulder, and jerked his chair farther away before the older man could find his mark. 

"Why can't you just believe me that I'm fine? I told you I'm fine. That should be the end of it," Peter said, anger spiking. Logically, he knew his friends were just concerned for him. But right now, it felt like a personal attack. 

"We're just worried about you, Peter," Bruce interjected. "Clint and Nat told us what happened on Sunday, and we just want to make sure you're okay after everything that happened. Someone _died_ in your arms." 

"It's not like it's the first time it's happened," Peter mumbled under his breath. He heard the two men suck in breaths beside him, shocked at the deadpan way he delivered the statement. "I know how to deal with this. Stop treating me like I'm fragile." After the way Clint and Nat had treated him on Sunday, acting like he needed to be tossed to the curb after experiencing a few more moments of trauma in his life, the last thing Peter needed was to be sidelined right as they were beginning to figure out what was happening in the city. 

"We're not - we're not trying to do that, Pete," Tony said, face dropping into an expression of concern. "We just want to make sure you're alright." 

"Because if you're not, we want to help you get to that point again," said Bruce, watching Peter tear his muffin into tinier and tinier pieces in his nervousness. Only about half of them ever made their way into his mouth. "Neither of us are strangers to mental health issues. You know that." 

Peter bit his lip, contemplating his options in the conversation before realizing it would be easier to simply fall into the old song and dance of crafting a lie containing believable elements of the truth. 

"I know, and I don't mean to undermine that in any way. Truth is, I'm not doing that great," Peter said, schooling his features into the perfect picture of sorrowful remorse and regret. "But I know I will be. What helps the most is getting back into the swing of things, helping all of you out. Being an Avenger. Doing the things that I know will help so many more people. It doesn't make the losses any easier, but knowing that I'm actively saving more lives helps me move forward and feel better." 

Peter catches the smiles on their faces, the looks of relief as concern etches its way into the reassurance that he would be okay before too long. He doesn't catch the mutual look the two share, or the secrets it holds. 

The sound of sparks disturbs the air around them, and moments later the visuals that accompany the familiar noise appeared. Doctor Strange stepped out of his portal, golden sparks flying around the room. The circle, which revealed one of the archival rooms of the Sanctum Sanctorum behind him, quickly closed as Strange whipped his cape to the side and perched on the edge of the table. 

"Hello, Tony." Stephen's smirk failed to match his matter-of-fact tone. "Good morning, Bruce and Peter."

"And a good morning to you, _Strange_ ," disdain dripped from Tony's words. "Nice of you to show up on time." 

"Last I checked, you set no specific time for this meeting. Just requested me to be here in the morning," Stephen said, arms crossed over his chest. "And here I am." 

Tony looked ready to bite into the conversation further, a dangerous bantering glint in his eyes, so Bruce stood before the two ego-oriented men could take their back-and-forth conversation any further. 

"If you gentlemen wouldn't mind, I recommend that we get started now," Bruce said. 

"Yeah, alright," said Tony. Strange and Peter hummed in agreement, and the four men walked away from the makeshift breakfast bar. Towards the front end of the lab, a small research room that Tony and Bruce usually reserved for minor experiments had its door propped open. Without further ado, they all entered. Strange's cape drew the door to a close behind them, isolating them and the contents of their discussion from the world.

Peter breaks the silence first. 

"Okay, so, I have two questions. One: what new information do we have?" The others stilled as Peter's voice echoed in the small space. "And two: why am I here with you?" 

"Well, to start with the easier of those two questions," Stephen drawls, "You're the only other scientist in town who can truly comprehend what our discovery means, given the fact that Lang is currently visiting Cassie in California." Peter frowns, but keeps the opinion that he's not qualified to be in this room to himself. He was the only one in the room with a PhD. 

"And to move on to the harder one," said Bruce, "We've figured out what the person behind all these killings is hoping to accomplish." 

"But - How?" Peter popped his knuckles absentmindedly, his mind anxiously going over all of the details he knew about the murders. "Weren't all of the bodies mutilated and tortured beyond repair? How could we have extracted any date from that?" 

"A normal person couldn't," interjected Stephen. "But I am the guardian of the Time Stone, and thus can use its properties in any way that I see fit and responsible." 

"So you -" Peter didn't get to finish his sentence. 

"He rolled back the injuries on each person's body until the damage done to hide their true intentions was gone, like some creepy necromancer," Tony said. "It let us see what actions they were truly carrying out, instead of their cover-up." 

"Necromancers raise people from the dead," Peter mumbled. "They don't reverse time." 

"That's besides the point, kid," said Tony. 

Bruce tapped several spots on the table beneath them, and holograms of several graphs, charts, and images popped up in front of them. Although tamed down, even the original injuries of the victims still sent Peter's stomach rolling. 

"At first, we weren't sure why normal civilians were being targeted with this much violence," Bruce said, tapping a photo of the first found victim. "The fact that the violence was so severe that the smell of the blood alone was able to draw Matt to it was concerning, to say the least." 

"But then I discovered this as I was autopsying the bodies," Stephen said, nodding to Bruce. The scientist blew the photo up further until the initial injuries were on full displays. Cuts ran all along the man's body, some of which had already begun healing before he died due to their superficial depth. "The first victim was methodically cut in almost every area of his body, with the injuries narrowing in depth and length. It's almost like his assailant wanted to know how the human body reacted to wounds of that type." 

"And then," said Tony, "a pattern appeared." A few taps of the man's fingers brought up photos of the rest of the initial victims, and Peter's eyes widened in shock as he took in the sights in front of him. 

"The next had broken bones," Stephen said. The photo matched, twisted angles and broken skin providing a grisly narrative. "Then burns." First, second, third degree. Glassy eyes and a twisted rigor mortis scream. "Bruises." Black and blue, purple and red, yellow and green painted their skin dead. "Stab wounds." Gaping holes with intestines and fat spilling out. "Bullets wounds of every kind." Shrapnel and gunpowder. Tony looked sick. "Dislocations and sprains." Popped out shoulders and cock-eyed knees. "It goes on like this, each victim a new type of wound. I believe whoever is doing this was attempting to find out how the human body reacts and responds to every possible type of injury, almost like -" 

"Almost like they're trying to figure out how healing works. How our bodies adapt and fix us when anything goes wrong," Bruce said. 

"Why? Why do you think _that's_ the reason behind all _this_?" Peter asked. 

"Because that young superhero that got murdered alongside all these civilians? Turns out she had a healing factor," said Stephen, pulling up a chart displaying a DNA strand similar to Peter's own. "Her mutation allowed her body to heal quickly and adapt to any injury that befell it. That is, until she was hit with too many injuries at once and her body didn't have the time it needed to respond to all of it quickly enough." 

"You're telling me this wasn't random after all? That all of those civilian deaths, and her death - the death of a superhero - was intentional on this killer's behalf all along?" Peter's anger was building quickly, scrabbling towards the surface and attempting to leak out. 

"It wasn't random, kid," Tony said, gnawing on a pen between his teeth. "It's designed to look random, and brutal, but it all has a purpose." 

"I believe whoever is doing this is attempting to create a healing serum for themselves. For what end, I'm not certain, but I do know this," Stephen said, beginning to pace the room. "The civilian deaths gathered them all the data they could ever need about how the human body responds to any type of injury and attempts to heal from it. The superhero death gathered them data about how a healing factor works in comparison to a normal human body's, as well as how much more damage the owner of one can sustain before it becomes too much compared to the average human." 

"If I had to guess, this killer isn't just attempting to create a normal healing serum. They want one that not only heals them faster than average, and at a greater rate, but one that automatically detects any bodily faults and takes care of them before they can ever become an issue. Essentially, they want to become invincible to any sort of damage, whether it comes from their internal systems or outside of them, to the point where nothing can ever damage them anymore," Bruce's statement is told without a shake in his voice, but his nervous ticks become present as his hands start fumbling with the edges of his sweater. 

"That sounds like Wade's mutation," Peter said, panic replacing the anger that was beginning to edge its way to the top of his emotions. "But why? How do you know for sure that's why they want instead of just a normal healing serum?" 

"Because of Sunday, Pete," said Tony. "Because of what you, Nat, and Clint found in that warehouse." A lump forms in Peter's throat, and he can't think as the feeling of the blood crawls under his fingernails, stains the newly-formed cracks in his skin, falls into his mouth.

"The victims from the warehouse, although also civilians, differed from the killer's original methods," Stephen said. "Each were injected with what seems to be an experimental serum, most likely different test trials of our villain's project, which mutated their genes. Although I wasn't able to determine exactly how long these underground medical trials were going on, it seems to me that this experimentation likely lasted for several days, even if it wasn't all in the same location." 

"They weren't just injected once. After their initial injections with the serum, they were hooked up to a constant supply of their latest iteration of their project," said Bruce. "From what I can gather, this is because they were being continually tortured, tested to see how fast their bodies and new healing factors were kicking in and working. If they weren't completely immune from their captors' inflicted damage, it meant there was still work to be done." Peter's stomach rolled, the memories of several days ago hitting him once more. Images of medical instruments holding open gaping wounds, mercury poisoning, and herbal mixtures danced in front of his eyes. And, oh. Peter remembered now. How each of the three victims bodies had been trying to heal against the attacks. 

"I remember now," Peter said, standing. "How could I have been so _fucking_ blind. 

"What Peter? What does you remember?" Tony asked him the questions urgently, hands gripping Peter's shoulders as the young adult flinched against his touch. 

"The victims in the warehouse, they all - They were all healing in some way from the injuries inflicted upon them. The last one," Peter's voice dropped an octave. "Jim, was his name, his healing was almost perfect. His body left no evidence behind of its injuries once whatever inflicted it upon him was removed. Like nothing had ever happened. I think - I think whoever's doing this is getting really close to accomplishing their goal, if your theory really is true, Bruce. The current stage lets the individual still gets injured, but the body is able to heal from it almost immediately without a trace." And, god, did Peter now realize that the only reason that man had died was because he had sealed the bullet inside of him in the false belief that it would keep him alive for longer, like a normal human being. If he had removed the bullet, remembered in the haze of the moment that the man had that mysterious healing factor, Jim would still be alive. 

"Shit," said Tony. 

"Shit indeed," said Stephen. 

"Fuck," said Bruce. 

Peter couldn't say anything. The raw guilt of Sunday's events were tearing his insides open all over again. He was such a god-damned stupid idiot. 

"This can't be Doc Ock or the Lizard. This isn't their mo," Tony said. "No, this is much more dangerous. Probably someone new. Someone unknown. Dammit. Why did it take us so long to get this far?" Stark punched the wall, fist denting the drywall as he fumed in anger. 

"Tony, calm down," said Bruce, standing, ready to placate the man if need be. 

"Don't tell me to calm down, Jolly Green Giant. This isn't, by any means, a time to be _calm_ of all things," Tony said, ignoring the edges of green tinting Bruce's image. 

"Okay, boys, play-date over, we need to - Peter?" Strange turned his train of dialogue towards the younger man once he realized Peter wasn't doing anything besides staring at the table with labored breathing, a heaving chest, and shaking hands. "Parker!" Peter's head shot up, wild eyes scanning the other men in the room as they all focused their attention on him. 

"What are we going to do? How are we going to fix this?" Peter's desperation seeped into his tone. 

"First things first, we need to make sure every hero with a healing factor is secured and has safety measures in place. We can't afford for this person to get ahold of one of us with a greater healing factor than that girl had. If that happens -" Stephen's game plan skids to a halt as Peter interjects. 

"What do you mean 'one of us'?" Peter asks. 

"One of us, Peter. Established superheroes," said Stark. And maybe, just maybe, it's the way he said it, drawing a line between "us" and "them." 

"So we matter more than the civilians now? Than the people just starting out?" Peter said, realizing his anger never left. 

"He never said that, Peter," said Bruce, attempting to calm the situation down. 

"Yes, but -" Strange cut Peter off this time. 

"Calm down, Spider-Kid. No one is insinuating that we're worth more than anyone else. Everything we _do_ is about saving other people. That isn't about to stop now," Stephen said, tone serious. "But we need to focus on us right now, because we might be the only thing holding this monster back from creating a complete formula that will render them completely invincible. I don't want to see what would happen then. Neither do you. Neither does Tony, or Bruce. We're all on the same page here." Adrenaline soaked out of Peter, falling onto the floor as it pooled around his feet. 

"Peter, would you feel comfortable staying at the tower for now?" Tony asked. 

"Why?" Peter fought to bite his tongue, stay calm. He's quite tired of being the eternal child Avenger. 

"You're the only superhero with an enhanced healing factor in New York that doesn't have a system of protection in place around them. If this person somehow found out who you were, they could potentially find you at your apartment, guard down. You could be kidnapped, and none of us would be any the wiser," said Bruce, always the voice of reason. 

Peter contemplated his options, flicked his eyes between the nervous faces of the men in front of him. He could accept their offer, stay in the Tower until they found this son of a bitch and got him locked behind bars. It would restrict his movements in some ways, keep him from maintaining his diet and self-destructive behaviors. But if he denied, went back to that musty apartment, and waited for that monster to show up and slit his throat, he'd be paralyzed with guilt. Peter knew that he wouldn't be able to fight back, not in his current physical state. With sigh, he pinched the skin around his waist and resigned himself to his fate. 

"Okay, I'll stay here," Peter said, ignoring the way the faces of everyone else in the room lit up as his fell. "Just give me tonight back at home to get everything I'll need." Bruce looked ready to protest, so Peter locked his gaze onto the older man and said, "Please." Bruce's shoulders sagged in defeat. 

"Alright, good," said Stephen. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must be going. I'm going to do some asking around the dimensions. Expect to hear from me the moment I learn anything." And with that, Strange conjured up his magic, opened up a portal, and disappeared from the room. 

"We're going to touch base with everyone else about these updates, Peter," Bruce said. "Care to join us? We'd appreciate your input." Peter's fists clenched around the fabric of his flannel, balling the fabric between his fingers. 

"I'd loved to, but I have class soon." The day had yet to reach the afternoon, and everyone in the room knew that Peter only had a late night physics class on Tuesdays. "I'll see you guys soon, probably at some point tomorrow." Peter stood, pulling his backpack over his shoulders and pushing his chair in. 

"Alright, see you tomorrow, kid," said Tony, absently waving good-bye as he began fiddling with his cell phone, preparing to call a group meeting with every other available hero in the city. 

"Bye, Peter," said Bruce, with a kind smile. He was still analyzing the information pulled up from their discussion, eyes glancing over the charts and text. 

Peter's feet carried him out of the room, through the lab, and back into the elevator. Rather than don his suit, take advantage of this block of time to make up for the patrol he had missed out on last night, Peter found himself passing through the lobby of Avengers Tower. He kept walking, shoes scraping against the concrete sidewalks, until he found himself in a small park. Sitting himself down on a bench, Peter laced his fingers together and laid his face in his palms. 

Although his view wasn't grand, Peter watched as squirrels, pigeons, and the occasional duck passed by his feet. They pecked at his pant legs, pulled at his laces, waited for him to move or shoo them away. But Peter remained solid as a stone, and that is where he remained until evening arrived and his night class afforded him the luxury of sitting in a classroom, far away from everything but the problems of gravity and absent-minded bridge-building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long disappearance. i fell into a deep dark rut and am only now starting to climb out of it. look forward to (hopefully) more updates. my love for this has picked up again, and i really really want to finish this someday.
> 
> the next chapter will feature peter's trip to oscorp.
> 
> please let me know your thoughts down below!! comments fuel me and keep me alive.


	7. stifle longing (grow fonder)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there are no new tags. enjoy! c:

Far too soon, the simple scientific release that Peter's Physics class so graciously brought him came to a crashing halt. Two hours had gone by in two minutes, and whereas Peter had barely settled into the refreshing routine of running a lab, his fellow classmates were slamming their notebooks shut and loudly zipping up their backpacks, eager to escape the cramped confines of their late night class. His professor stood at the front of the room, fruitlessly reminding his students of the fact that they would need to submit a report for the lab they had completed today within the week. The clock had only just passed ten, but the scrape of metal chairs against the linoleum floor reminded him of the fact that his time of reprieve was over. Sighing, Peter packed up his things and followed the wave of young adults out of the room.

Although a brutal sense of exhaustion rested in his bones and almost every inch of his skin ached, Peter knew he had to go on patrol. He hadn't done so last night, when he had been stuck in his caffeine-fueled haze, and he hadn't done so on Sunday, after the events of the warehouse. This sort of slacking had helped cause the situation they were currently dealing with. If he had been move active, more vigilant, then maybe they could have started working on catching whoever this bastard killing people around the city was a lot sooner. Hell, the murderer could have even been behind bars right now, long before the events of the warehouse. 

Ignoring the dull ache in his chest and ribs, Peter ducked into an empty alley, grateful for its slims walls and anonymity. Two large dumpsters were placed slightly apart from each other, offering Peter the perfect place to change in. He slipped between the two, sneakers squishing on the ground as rotten bananas filled the cracks in his soles. The acrid odor of week-old garbage threatened to make Peter lose the muffin he had ate earlier, so he quickly switched to breathing in solely through his mouth as he wiggled out of his clothes and into his suit. His mask helped to buffer the scent of the alley somewhat, but Peter didn't use that as an excuse to stick around as he quickly swung his bag over his shoulders and began to climb the wall in front of him. Usually, he would web his belongings to the wall of whatever alley he'd changed in and come back for them later, but Peter didn't know if he'd have the energy to come back here once he had finished patrolling for the night. It would be easier to simply carry it all with him, and drop it nearby whenever he needed to swoop in to stop a fight or bring aid to a civilian. 

Reaching the top of the building, Peter felt a burning pull on his ribs. He knew that it was his binder, that it had been on for too long. Every minute of Peter's patrol took him closer to the forty-eight hour mark. But Peter would be fine. He'd kept it on for much longer than that without any problems more serious than bruised and mottled skin or a phantom pain that made it feel like his ribs were going to cave in.

Nothing bad had ever happened before, and nothing bad would happen now. 

Biting his tongue and ignoring the building pressure, Peter leapt off the edge of the building and sent a string of web fluid into the sky. It caught on the edge of a building, and the up and down of his swinging vertigo that followed brought a true start to the night. 

Peter's travels throughout the city were unusually calm tonight. Besides walking several individuals back to their homes and helping someone down off of the Brooklyn Bridge, the only instances of crime Peter brought a halt were several run of the mill purse snatchers and a man who attempted to steal the wheels off of a bicycle that was locked to a bike rack in Queens. A quick glance at his phone informed Peter of the fact that it was nearly 4 a.m. as the beginnings of dawn started to scratch at the edges of the sky. After a few moments of contemplation, Peter decided to head back home for the night, shoulders sagging in defeat. 

That is, until mere minutes from his apartment, Peter caught sight of two men attempting to break into a bank's outdoor ATM. 

Swinging down into the alley nearest to the scene, Peter quickly webbed his backpack to the wall before jumping onto it. With a quick backflip, he found himself behind the men. Ribs screaming and chest heaving, Peter berated himself for the theatrics before clearing his throat. 

"Hey, guys, didn't know Wednesday morning was the day you got paid! That's pretty cool! Need any help with that?" A quick twist of his wrist saw the larger of the two masked men swearing as his gun was webbed to the wall, and he growled before taking a swing at Peter. 

"Woah there, big boy. No need to get angry! I'm sure your deposit just hasn't hit your account yet. Happens to me all the time." Jumping above the punch, Peter used the man's arm as leverage before rounding a kick into his chest, knocking him backwards and onto the ground. Landing on the balls of his feet, Peter tensed as he felt his spider-sense truly tingle for the first time since Sunday. Confusion swam across his features before his hearing picked up on the swoosh of air bending around a punch, and he barely dodged out of the way before the other man's fist found its mark in his lower back. 

"Hey, buddy! That's not fair. Don't you know you should always punch a man facing him? It's not nice to go in without warning." Peter swore as his web-shooters jammed, giving the thief he'd downed a chance to stand back up. Before he could jump into the air, or flip out of the way, Peter's spider-sense grew from a mild hum into a mind-numbing buzz. Nearly paralyzed to spot, he had just enough time to turn and see the same fist he'd dodged so expertly last time land squarely between his ribs and his lungs. 

Before he knew what had happened, Peter found himself on the ground, eyes welded shut and back aching from the sudden impact. 

_Get back up, Parker. You've taken way worse hits than this._

But Peter couldn't breathe. So much for an easy fight to round out his mostly useless night. 

"Dude, I think I might have just killed Spider-Man." How would a punch have killed Spider-Man? The punch hadn't even hit his throat. But Peter couldn't even bring himself to move. 

"Nah, man, nobody can kill Spider-Man." Fuck. It wasn't even that painful. Sure, his top rib felt like it might be cracked and his lungs felt like deflated balloons, but it wasn't like Peter had been shot. Or stabbed. Or thrown through a wall. 

"Then why isn't he moving?" Peter blinked, spots of black dancing across his lenses. He couldn't pass out, not here. He needed to finish this fight. 

"How the fuck am I supposed to know? Am I the Spider-Man expert now?" Peter wanted to curl into a ball, but his fingers weren't even moving as he attempted to ball them into fists. An inhale found a fire in his chest, and every half-wheezed breath only fanned the flames.

"I have a bad feeling about this. We need to go." Why couldn't he have dodged faster? Were his response times really getting to be that slow?

"Stop being such a baby. Let's finish getting the money." A light twitch shuddered through his body, imperceptible to the eye but large enough to jostle all of his bones. Scratch his earlier assessment. The top two ribs were cracked, not just one. 

"I'm leaving. You can finish this by your own fucking self." A retreating pair of footsteps seemingly shook the street as the feeling of a cough tickled Peter's throat, clawed at his mouth. 

"No way in hell, man. We'll just come back tomorrow night." The second pair of footsteps walked faster than the first, quickly catching up to his friend's. The cough violently exploded from Peter's throat, droplets of blood falling back onto his face. One landed in his nose, iron flooding his senses. 

_Get **up** , Parker._

The footsteps were gone. Peter's back began to ache from the prone position he found himself in. He tried to roll onto his side, but only made it half-way before collapsing back onto his spine. Fuck. 

He had to teach himself how to breathe again. Time passed in an inconceivable blur as inhales and exhales grew larger, then smaller as his lungs pretended to perform the very action they were responsible for. It was only once his breathing found itself back to a weird semblance of normal that Peter stretched his limbs and dragged himself to his feet. Muscles aching, he used the wall as a guide to carry himself back to the alley he'd abandoned his backpack in before everything had gone so horribly wrong. 

Rounding the corner, his knees buckled and Peter found himself befriending the dirty asphalt that made up the ground of his city once more. Another cough, and the blood in his mouth trickled past the edges of his lips, down his neck until it leaked out of the seam between his mask and suit. A half-circle ring of crimson adorned his neck, further staining the fabric of his costume. The blood from Sunday hadn't fully come out in the wash. 

Blinking, Peter realized he'd lain down in the alley. The temptation to fall asleep, right then and there, overwhelmed him. But Peter couldn't get caught here, sleeping on the asphalt in his suit. He could imagine the headlines that would follow: **Spider-Man's Identity Revealed, Dead-Beat College Student Wearing the Suit Found Passed Out in Abandoned Alleyway.** God, Jameson would have a field day with that. 

Ignoring the way his head spun as he stood, Peter swung his backpack over his shoulders, placed his hands on the wall, and climbed onto the nearest roof. If his hands and feet kept unsticking on his way to the top, well, no one had to know. Once he found himself atop the city, Peter merely held onto his aching ribs and limped his way home. The several blocks of fiddling with his jammed webshooters and simple rooftop jumps occupied his mind until he made it through his apartment's window, threw his belongings onto the floor, and collapsed on his couch. Sleep offered him the greatest reprieve now, but Peter couldn't rest until he removed his binder. 

Chest heaving, Peter ripped his mask off of his face and slowly peeled his suit from his skin until the dirtied fabric lay bunched around his waist. Gripping the edges of his binder, he wrenched it off, gasping as the added weight removed itself from his chest. Looking down, Peter realized just how badly he'd messed up this time. 

Large bruises covered nearly every inch of his skin from his waist up to his collarbones, varying in size and intensity. The smallest were yellow-green splotches the size of his palms, located along his shoulder-blades and hips. The rest were centered in his chest, each large enough to rival a hardback book as they wrapped around his ribs and organs, purple, black, and blue in color. Pressing his fingers to the ones nearest his broken ribs, Peter hissed, flinching back immediately as a sharp spike of pain registered in his mind. Although his breathing had been readily improving, it now grew labored, fighting to remain calm as the realization of just how badly Peter had fucked up washed over him. 

Maybe he had finally kept his binder on for too long. If he had been binding safely, and for the right amount of time, this wouldn't have happened. But the fact of the matter remained that Peter also couldn't live without it. The dysphoria that would claw open his skin and eat him alive otherwise was a worse outcome than this. If he just slept, took a few hours to check out from it all, then Peter would be alright. 

Eternally grateful for his healing factor, Peter closed his eyes, body twitching as he descended into an uneasy sleep. The full-body jolts continued throughout the night, each one waking him momentarily and twisting the anxiety in his gut before Peter's exhaustion overtook him once more. Despite it all, Peter slept through his morning alarms. By the time he fully wakes, sunlight is tickling his irises. Wednesday afternoon had arrived. 

For the second time within a week, Peter Parker had missed his college classes. Stifling a groan, he moved to sit up from his half-slumped, half-upright position on the couch, only to remember too late the damage that had occurred mere hours before. Hands immediately going to his ribs, a small smile danced across his features as Peter realized that they were only bruised now. The deep breaths his lungs were taking informed Peter that his lungs were back to fully functioning as well. Ignoring the bruises still painting his skin like a Jackson Pollock painting, Peter stood and stretched before grabbing his binder and slipping back into it like the second skin it was. 

Smart? No. But when had Peter Parker ever made a smart decision to save his life? 

Pacing around his apartment, Peter retrieved his phone from its discarded position on the floor and tapped out a quick apology to his professors. Too tired to come up with a better excuse, the commonality of sickness found its way into his e-mails as he complained about catching a stomach bug. Whether or not they believed him didn't truly matter. All he needed was for the college to see that he took the initiative to inform them of his absence, even though his e-mails took place after the fact instead of before. 

Unsure of what to do with his day in the absence of his academic pursuits, Peter considered calling the pizza shop to see if they needed an extra hand around today. It never hurt to bank a few more hours of work into his bi-weekly paychecks. Bringing up his work's number, Peter became distracted as his eye caught another number in his contact list.

Right near the entry for Joe's Pizza lay one for Harry Osborn. The screen taunted him with it, the black text of **Harry :)** burning itself into his brain. Peter's mind went back to Monday, when he had given Harry his phone and watched him punch his digits into its cracked screen. Harry had likely felt the faults in the screen scrape the pads of his fingertips while doing so, but he hadn't said anything. On that day, Peter hadn't been sure if he'd ever message Harry, let alone take him up on his offer to come visit Oscorp. The fact that he was back in Peter's life after being absent for so long still shocked him to the core, and the idea of inviting that old friendship back into his life after everything else in his past had faded away long ago had overwhelmed him. It seemed like a recipe for disaster, a perfect storm to let his past hurt him once more. But today, Peter felt less fearful as the longing for familiarity stirred in his chest. Tapping Harry's number, Peter thumbed out a quick message asking if Harry would still be up to show him around Oscorp this afternoon. 

The response came almost immediately. 

_Of course, Peter!! I thought you were gonna stand me up, since I never heard back from you! What time will you be here :) ?_ A quick glance at the time told Peter it was nearly two in the afternoon. A tiny ball of guilt rolled in Peter's stomach as he remembered basic social conventions. He should have messaged Harry a lot sooner.

 _ **three, if that's okay with you?**_

_Yeah!! See you soon :))_ Peter found it both refreshing and hilarious that Harry still clung to emojis as if they were the only way of expressing his emotions through text. Rolling his shoulders back, Peter felt his muscles stretch and pull over his bones as he walked towards his bedroom. As he crossed the threshold, his phone buzzed once more, this time with a message from Stark. 

_Still moving into the tower today? Stocked your kitchen with the weird oatmeal you like to eat._ Although the promise he'd made to Tony and Bruce yesterday had previously slipped his mind, the second comment caused a small smirk to quirk Peter's lips upwards. He'd need to pack and swing by the tower before heading to Oscorp now.

 _ **and how is steel cut cinnamon apple oatmeal mixed with apple cider weird?**_ A strange feeling washed over Peter's body, a mix between the fondness he had for his teammates and the fear that came with the prospect of living alongside them. Hopefully, he'd be able to get in and out this afternoon without running into anyone. He doesn't want them to see him like this right now, with ribs aching and a headache pounding. 

_I can't believe I'm enabling this monstrosity._ Despite his whining about it, Peter knew that Tony wasn't actually upset about his food choices. Whenever Tony was _truly_ upset, he didn't say anything at all. 

_**thanks, tony.**_ When no more messages came through, Peter knew that Tony had understood the double meaning behind his thank you. 

With nothing else to distract him from beginning his day, Peter shrugged out of the rest of his suit and into an over-sized hoodie and a pair of jeans with holes in the knees. Although most would think that his disheveled look is a stylistic choice, Peter's fashion choices were merely a product of necessity and comfort. Bending to retrieve a duffel bag from his closet, Peter tried to ignore the way his muscles visibly stretched and rippled over his knees. A small yelp of success broke the silence in the air as Peter grabbed ahold of one of the bag's straps, yanking the ancient vessel from its hiding place. Despite its badly mended holes and rips, the thin nylon duffel had remained in one piece throughout the years. It had followed Peter throughout many moves, and he'd be damned if he stopped that tradition now. 

Flitting around the room, Peter sorted through his meager belongings. His older clothes found themselves chucked into an empty corner while comfortable t-shirts, pants, and other necessary clothing items found their way into his bag. Peter shoved older pieces of schoolwork into his desk's drawers as he started a small pile of important documents on his bed. The nostalgic photos of his friends and family, his high school diploma, and his acceptance letter into college seemed to watch him as Peter shoved the giant fluffy blanket that kept him warm at night into the rapidly decreasing space left inside his duffel bag. His stuffed teddy bear from childhood, a few nerdy wall tapestries, and Peter's favorite books quickly filled in what remained of the space alongside his X-Acto knife and a lighter. Zipping his duffel closed, Peter took one last cursory look around his room before he picked up the pile of paperwork and closed the door behind him. 

It depressed Peter, in a way, to realize just how little he truly owned. Even as he picked up his backpack and began rounding up the rest of his possessions from the apartment, Peter couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't _normal_ to live like this. As his mask, laptop, and some chargers found their way into his backpack, Peter heard his footsteps echo in the emptied space around his apartment. It felt as though Peter was nothing but a ghost passing through, snatching toiletry items and a bottle of conditioner out of the hands of their rightful owner. Even if he wasn't the ghost, the undeniable fact grew that a heart lived under the cherry-stained hardwood floors, banging to be let out. That tell-tale truth rung out, undeniable, as Peter slung his backpack over his shoulders and bunched up the handles of the duffel bag in his fist. 

It's ironic, that flipping the lock on his window closed felt more final than any of the other actions he'd taken thus far. 

Peter stood still for a few moments, staring at the window panes. His reflection, distorted and re-colored in their glass, seemed to hesitate at the thought of walking away from the single-paned wonder. His opening to the rest of the world, closed and sealed, mocked Peter and his agreement to move into the tower. Peter forced himself to dig his keys out of his backpack's side pocket. He watched as the pieces of metal caught the afternoon sunlight, glinting as they emerged victorious from the confines of their canvas prison. Walking away from the window, Peter allowed his feet to carry him down the hall and out the door. His fingers, gripping the keys, turned the lock to the right, sealing his fate. 

Logically, he knew this would only be for a few weeks. Once the villain was caught, he would return to his apartment, and settle back into his old, lonely routine. Ignoring the finality covering every inch of his actions, Peter turned away from his apartment and took to the streets. 

Upon reaching the tower, Peter dug out his intern badge for the second time within just as many days. He stepped into the elevator without any troubles after showing it to the woman manning its service desk today. As the elevator reached his floor, Peter nervously fiddled with the handles of his duffel bag before transferring it to his other hand. Keying his password into the elevator's pinpad, Peter watched as the doors opened. He had been granted access to his suite.

"Hello, Mr. Parker," said JARVIS. The sudden appearance of the AI's voice caused Peter to flinch and almost drop his bags. "Welcome to your personally curated suite, crafted by Mr. Stark to meet your liking. Since this is your first time visiting your quarters, I will briefly describe their layout to you so that you may find whatever it is you might need." Peter, unsure of what to do, merely moved into the entryway of his floor. 

"That's okay, JARVIS, you don't have to. It's not a problem. I'm sure I'll be able to figure things out before too long," Peter said, biting his lip and grinding the back corners of his jaw. 

"I insist, Mr. Parker. Tony has requested that I help make your time here in the tower comfortable and enjoyable. By giving you a tour, I allow you to begin settling into your new space right away." Peter bit his tongue. JARVIS's electronic presence was making him anything but comfortable. A defeated sigh escaped his lips.

"Alright, JARVIS, go on." The AI either didn't pick up on Peter's discomfort from its presence or chose to ignore it entirely. 

"From your current location in the entryway, there are three different paths available to you. To your left, you will find a spacious seating area outfitted with a large couch, comfortable chairs, and an entertainment system capable of running any gaming console you might desire. To your right, you will find a combined kitchen and dining area, stocked with all of your favorite foods. If something you desire is not present, you can leave a request with me. Mr. Stark will then order it as soon as possible, and it will be delivered right to your door." Already overwhelmed by the sheer scope of his living arrangements in the tower, Peter simply nodded along as JARVIS continued speaking. 

"What lies directly in front of you is your bedroom. It is outfitted with a spacious bed, a large desk, a six-drawered dresser, and several bookshelves. If these amenities do not fit your needs or desires, once again let me know so that Mr. Stark can remedy the situation as soon as possible. There is also a bathroom attached to this room which contains both a shower and bathtub for your bathing needs." The quiet relief Peter felt knowing that he had a bathtub available to him seemed immeasurable. It had been so long since he had last been able to take a bath, and the thought of being able to completely submerge himself in its soapy waters filled him with a strange sense of peace. 

"Thank you, JARVIS. Is there anything else you'd like me to know?" Peter found himself picking up his bags and moving into his bedroom, placing the duffel and backpack atop the spacious king bed. God, it seemed as if the size of the mattress alone would swallow him whole the first time Peter attempted to sleep on it. 

"That is all, Mr. Parker. If or when you'd like to speak with me in the future, simply call my name." Was it just his imagination, or did the AI sound a little sad right then? 

"Alright, J. Thanks a lot. But, please, call me Peter." Peter scanned the wall of windows across from his bed, looking for the location of their locking mechanism. A surprised smile danced across his features as Peter located it and realized that it was already unlocked. Tony knew him too well. 

"Indeed, sir." Peter chuckled at the AI's dry sense of humor while pulling his webshooters out of his backpack and attaching them to his wrists. Placing his hands on the glass, Peter lightly pushed until the window popped open, and he slipped out onto the side of the tower. A flick of his wrist saw a string of web fluid attach itself to the nearest building, and Peter quickly swung onto its roof before anyone - civilian or otherwise - could notice his skilled maneuver. Another swift movement saw Peter dropping to the ground, momentarily stopping in an alleyway to convert his webshooters from their usual appearance into a more incognito design akin to a stylish bracelet. It wouldn't do to have someone noticing his webshooters during his time at Oscorp today. 

Slipping into the crowd, Peter fell into its easy rhythm and let the wave carry him downtown towards the large building that housed Oscorp Industries. Before long, Peter found himself passing through the sleek revolving doors of the research labs and straight into the arms of his childhood friend. 

"There you are, Peter! I was worried that you weren't going to actually show! It is 3:05, after all." Harry's grip on Peter's shoulders seemed to rearrange his bones as the hug continued. "God, I mean, I _know_ it's only been two days, but it feels like it's been another lifetime since I last saw you!" Peter suppressed a wheeze as the pressure of the hug threatened to jostle his bruised ribs. 

"Yeah, yeah, it's good to see you too, Harry. Now, please, let go before you break me or something," said Peter, a light-hearted edge accompanying his sincere plea. Upon hearing Peter's words, Harry finally relinquished his hold and frowned, taking in Peter's appearance for the first time. 

"You look like death warmed over. Are you alright?" Harry's concern reminded Peter of the fact that his appearance made of dull hair and dark circles the size of canyons under his eyes likely worried most people. 

"Oh, yeah. I'm fine, Harry, I promise. You know how it goes, with me and school. I've just had a few late nights," said Peter, watching Harry's skepticism morph into understanding. 

"You're still burning the midnight oil, aren't you, Parker? God, you've always done this. But sometimes, you need to take a break before you can make a difference. I did that with Europe, and look at me now! I'm back in action," said Harry, clapping his hands together as a devilish grin spread across his features. "Now, come on, enough of this small talk! I want to show you the good stuff. I know you'll absolutely _love it_." 

Something about Harry's enthusiasm was infectious, and Peter found himself genuinely excited about something for the first time in a long while. It wasn't like Saturday, when the movie marathon Steve and Bucky brought to Peter's doorstep grew a semblance of happiness inside him as the day went on. This joy, already overwhelming, found its birth at the onset of the activity instead of at its end. The idea of getting to see how a major scientific corporation functioned up close and personal without all of the showmanship and curtained secrets made Peter feel like a little kid again. Peter found himself becoming more grounded with each passing second as he followed Harry through the lobby with a bounce in his step. 

"Now, I know that most of what we see in the beginning here is going to be pretty basic. It's probably similar to whatever you do during your internship with Stark, but I hope it's interesting to you nonetheless," said Harry, looking over his shoulder as Peter's wide eyes took in everything around him. "Once we get into the elevator here, I'll take you to our fundamental labs a few floors up." Peter knew without a doubt that what Harry was about to show him differed from his experiments in Tony's labs greatly. The likelihood of Norman Osborn, the founder of a company dedicated to creating top of the line military and medical equipment, dedicating time and resources towards constructing superhero equipment seemed very, very low. 

Before Peter could blink, the elevator had carried both him and Harry to their destination. As soon as the doors opened, Harry stepped out and spread his arms wide, a large smile on his face. 

"Welcome to the fundamental labs, Peter," said Harry, dropping out of his dramatic pose and clapping his friend on the shoulder. "Come on, now, don't be shy." 

Rather than hold Peter back, or force him to follow a personalized tour around the space, Harry merely let him move around the lab as much as his heart desired. Every once in a while, Peter would turn back towards Harry with a grin so wide it could shatter his cheekbones, rambling on about a scientific theory or property of Physics as he watched the scientists of the lab test various equipment prototypes. Although the military work was interesting enough in its own right, Peter's found himself primarily interested in watching the medical trials. 

"And what's that?" Peter's question hung in the air as Harry caught up to him, watching one of Oscorp's scientists stress-test a new light-weight stretcher designed to both carry patients and function as a cot. "Why stray away from a more conventional model?" 

"Well, you know my dad. He's all about innovation, especially these days. To him, it's not 'if it's not broke, don't fix it.' It's all 'if it's not broke, improve it.' It can get kind of ridiculous sometimes, like that over there," Harry said, watching an intern test an automated shot injector. It flung the dummy's arm across the room instead of giving it the faux flu vaccine. "He's just doesn't know when to stop sometimes." Peter watched as a distant anger grew in Harry's eyes. "It's like he's lost sight of what's actually important about all this, you know?" Peter didn't know, not really. But that wasn't what Harry needed to hear. 

"Yeah, I guess you're right," said Peter. The tense feeling that had found its way into Harry's shoulders eased at Peter's words, seeping out as he calmed down from his sudden rant. 

"Sorry about that. I just get so angry sometimes when people forgot what science is actually about. It's about finding _new_ ways to help people. I mean, yeah, it's important to always keep improving, but why only innovate when you can _invent_?" Harry's question hung in the room as he continued on, not truly looking for an answer from Peter. "It's why I can't wait for more people our age to get in here and start working, you know? We need the fresh blood. We need, well, someone like _you_ , Peter." All at once, Peter's immersion in the lab fell to pieces around him. He had forgotten, so quickly, the initial reason Harry had invited him here. Harry wanted Peter to join their operations, assist in their new projects. But that dream, or anything similar to it, fell far away from anything within Peter's reach. 

"That's nice, Harry, but you know I'm not qualified to work here," said Peter, pressing on as his friend opened his mouth to protest. "I don't even have my undergrad degree yet, let alone any semblance of a grad school education. My experience isn't enough to work alongside the people already here, and I'd only get in their way more than I'd help anything. I couldn't risk ruining any of your dad's operations in any way." And, god, did the longing ache in Peter's chest rear its ugly head again, tearing the sheer exhilaration that he'd felt inside Oscorp up until mere moments ago into pieces. Any semblance of hope at achieving a job like the one Harry had dangled in front of him in the pizza shop, or even now, wasn't based in reality. 

"Peter, I'm sorry, but that just isn't true. You have to recognize that -" Peter cut off Harry's speech before he could continue on for much longer. 

"Harry, please, just listen to me. If all of this, everything since Monday, was nothing but a thinly veiled attempt to get me to work for your dad's company, I'm going to have to leave," said Peter, watching as surprise flashed across Harry's features. "Now, I don't know about you, but if you'd really, _truly_ like to be friends again, I am nothing but all for it. But, please, don't try to get me to do something I don't want to do." Harry opened his mouth to interject, but Peter cut him off once more. "I've missed you, Harry, I really have. I'd like to reconnect, but I need you to stop this, okay? Can we just be us?" Peter's hands found purchase around his phone case inside his hoodie's kangaroo pocket, and he anxiously began snapping the case on and off the top right corner of his phone. Leave it to him to ruin today. 

"Okay," Harry said. 

"What?" Peter's eyes widened in shock. 

"I said okay. You're right," said Harry, sheepishly running a hand through his hair. "I've missed you too, and the last thing I want to do is ruin things again." Harry held his hand out, cheesy grin on his face. "Hi, I'm Harry Osborn." Peter, seeing where Harry was going with this, shook his hand. 

"And I'm Peter Parker," Peter said, sticking his hand back inside his hoodie's pocket. 

"Are we okay?" Harry asked. 

"We're okay," Peter said. Before he could turn around to head back towards the elevator, Harry caught his attention once more. 

"Before you leave, can I please show you one last thing?" As the beginnings of a scowl crossed Peter's features, Harry held his hands up in defeat. "No strings attached! I promise. I'm just really excited about the newest project I finally convinced my dad to go in on." Peter quirked his brow upwards, waiting for Harry to continue. "It has to do with what I mentioned the other night, about how I found my passion for science while in Europe." 

"Something about medicine, right?" Peter asked, following Harry towards the elevator now. 

"Yes, I can't believe you remembered! I don't know if you ever heard, but my mom passed away recently, right before I came back from Europe," said Harry, closing the elevator doors behind them. Harry punched in the number for one of the higher levels of the building, sending both him and Peter sky high. 

"I'm sorry to hear that," Peter said, bunching the fabric of his hoodie up in between his fingers. He'd never quite figured out how to offer someone condolences upon learning that one of their loved ones had passed.

"Thank you, Peter, but it's alright. It was no one's fault," said Harry as the elevator came to a stop at their destination. "She just got sick." A sad smile momentarily crossed Harry's face before his features fell back into their normal easy-going countenance. "In a way, her sickness is what spurred me to finally convince Dad to create a medicine-oriented section of his company. And _man_ has he run with it. He's probably out in the field right now, poking away at some experiment or field trial of his." Harry's words stirred a pit of dread deep inside Peter's bones that he couldn't quite place. The longer he spoke, the more it grew, gnawing and chewing on the marrow and muscles adorning Peter's creamy insides. 

"I'm just so happy that my dad is finally spear-heading something that'll finally help people, you know?" Harry said, looking back at Peter. "C'mon, follow me." So Peter did. 

This lab differed from the other quite greatly. Not only was it more secluded and private than the one located downstairs, but the air surrounding it felt like ambitious and more mysterious. Perhaps the implication that this project ran on grief created the stifling air surrounding all of the research in front of Peter's eyes. Because most of what Harry showed Peter proudly, like a child running to their mom with a picture they'd drawn clutched in their hands, was basic medicine. The medication, tools, and technology in front of Peter, that Harry described in detail and raved on and on about, were nothing special. 

So why did it all feel so wrong? 

"Around the corner here is the research that my father's spear-heading. Everything else that I just showed you falls under my control," said Harry, enthusiasm dropping. "It's still cool, but I'm not as attached to it. It all has something to do with how the body heals itself, or something. Probably because what my mom had was a degenerative disease." Peter's pupils dilated at the sight in front of him. "Like I said earlier, Dad can get pretty obsessive sometimes. He's always trying to find new ways to push things to their limits without damaging them. I guess he's finally turned his attention towards the human body."

Rats in cages, holograms detailing regeneration trials, and vials of liquid in assorted colors of green filled several tables at the back of the lab. Harry turns, just for a moment, and Peter snaps a few photos of the sight with his phone. Seconds later, Harry's hand is light on Peter's shoulder as they began to walk back towards the elevator. 

"I know it's not that interesting, especially since I can't tell you that much about it, but I figured since we were up here I might as well give you the full experience," Harry said, oblivious to the dawning of realization in Peter's eyes. "Want to head back down?" Several moments passed, and Peter realized he was taking far too long to answer. 

"Uh, yeah, sure." It doesn't take long for them to reach the elevator and begin traveling down to the ground floor. Harry's voice fills the air around them, but Peter can't even begin to think about processing what he's saying. 

Because this is all too familiar, and it's all making too much sense. Peter has no way to be sure, however, not on his own. Bigger coincidences, bigger _misunderstandings_ have happened than this, and Peter has no right to give credibility to any of the fears stirring in his veins. There is no possible way that this could be linked to the villain the Avengers were currently investigating. Before Peter can interrupt Harry's background chatter with a question, the elevator lands on the ground floor and the two of them are walking directly towards the front door. 

"Well, that's about it, Peter. Thank you so much for coming by today and for staying, despite everything," Harry said, sincere appreciation dripping from his words. "I know most of this is pretty boring, but I appreciate you coming to see me. Can we please hang out again soon? Outside of any of this?" Peter's brain is short-circuiting, a spinning wheel of death grinding in his thoughts as he attempts to string together enough words to respond to Harry's direct line of questioning. 

"Yeah, of course. Maybe at your place?" Peter asks. It's open-ended and slightly dismissive, but Harry doesn't pick up on the flighty nature of Peter's short statements. He's two breaths away from panicking in the lobby of Oscorp, and Harry is smiling, grinning at him. 

"Yes! Absolutely, Parker. You will not regret this," Harry said, Peter slowly wilting beside him. "It seems that my master plot worked, because we've officially reconnected! You _have_ to come by, now. Don't you even _dare_ think of standing me up, man. I couldn't bear it. It'll be just like the old days, okay?" If any more sunshine radiated out of Harry's body, Peter might just have a stroke. 

"Sounds great, Harry. I'm looking forward to it," said Peter, forcing his lips into the most convincing soft smile he could muster. "I'll let you know when I'm next free, okay?" If Peter's answer of uncertainty bothers him, Harry doesn't let it show outside of a small falter in his smile. It's not that Peter doesn't want to see him, to continue blazing the trail that would allow their friendship to truly reignite. It's that the events of the last half hour have left him shaken and damned. "I can't wait." Those last three words are the icing on the cake, and Harry hugs Peter once more. This time, there's less intensity and force in the gesture. 

"Don't you ghost me now, Parker," Harry said. "I don't think I'd live through it." A hollow laugh escapes Peter's throat. 

"I won't," Peter's words are muffled, and Harry pulls back from the hug. "I do need to head out for now, though."

"The Stark internship?" Harry question hangs innocently in the air. 

"Yeah, the Stark internship," said Peter, heart hardening around the white lie. Harry waves goodbye as Peter exits through the revolving door, and Peter's aching hands wave back as he leaves Oscorp behind for the streets of New York. 

Heart clenching and feet heavy, Peter's mind is clogged and drowning as the possibilities rattle in his mind. All the signs point towards his only surviving childhood friend's father being the villain they've been trying so hard to capture, and Peter _can't_ be right. He won't let himself be right, not without a second opinion. Walking on autopilot back towards Avengers Tower, Peter digs his phone out of his hoodie's pocket and scrolls through his contact list, looking for a particular number. Upon finding it, he dials, desperately hoping its owner will pick up. 

Jessica Jones, in all of her alliterative glory, answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for your patience!! i'm super excited to keep working on this. being able to give all of you this story that's been building and living in my head for such a long time makes me so happy. as always, please leave your thoughts and comments down below!! i love knowing what all of my readers think as each chapter rolls out. 
> 
> the next chapter will see peter seeking the help of two of the defenders in order to piece together all of the information he's learned after this trip to oscorp!
> 
> i'm sorry if this chapter isn't up to my normal level of quality. i had a hard time getting to a place where i liked what my writing had to say here. (also, this fic is officially past the length of a novella.)

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: @hidefromeveryone
> 
> remember the feeling that watching a ghibli movie on a stormy tuesday night brings. when you have your favorite food handy, your comfiest sweatshirt on, and no cares in the world. that's a feeling worth living for. stick around, and you'll feel it again. even though things are bad, wait for it to come around. other pleasant surprises might find you in the meantime.


End file.
